


Out of My Mind

by laugh_a_latte



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Autumn, Coffee Shops, Conversations, Dogs, Domestic, Draco Malfoy in the Muggle World, EWE, Falling In Love, Grimmauld Place, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Kissing, Light Angst, Long-Haired Draco Malfoy, M/M, POV Draco Malfoy, Post-War, Rain, Songfic, draco plays piano
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-06-29 00:53:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15718563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laugh_a_latte/pseuds/laugh_a_latte
Summary: Draco once dreamt of transforming the world, but has since closed himself off, hanging curtains around his mind. Not letting anything get to him, not letting anything escape. It's quiet. Predictable. Suddenly, Harry Potter is disrupting Draco's life, seeing through his emotionless mask and tearing down those curtains he carefully hung. Nothing good could possibly come from this, or could it?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is based on the song _Not Today_ by Twenty One Pilots.  
>  I plan to update it weekly. Hope you enjoy it :)

The sliding metal of the lock reverberates around the empty landing so that the sound hits the ears twice. Draco removes the key from the lock and jiggles the door knob, locked, before he slips the key ring into his front pocket. He turns and descends the first flight of stairs, being careful as always on the uneven, wooden steps, his hand idly trailing the plastered white walls beside him. His boots are heavy and loud in the empty space despite his light steps, causing more reverberations. There’s a break in the noise on the next landing, carpeted, before it starts again on the following flight of stairs.

Two more flights of repeat before Draco makes his way down the narrow, high ceilinged hallway that leads outside. The light in the hall burnt out weeks ago, drowning the area in darkness, lit only by the light spilling from the landing. If that light went out it would be pitch black.

Draco pauses before the heavy wooden door that separates him from the outside world, his hand resting on the large brass knob. His eyes dart to the mirror that for some god-knows-why reason the property owner hung in the hall. It’s dirty, covered in countless fingerprints and smudges, and doesn’t look as if it’s had a good wipe down since it was hung. Draco looks past the grime to see himself reflected back.

His hair, ever luminescent even in the dim hallway, peeks out from his fading black beanie, which nearly matches the color of his charcoal grey coat. The wool of the coat itches Draco’s wrists, where his jumper has ridden up on his arms. Draco reaches into the coat and pulls on the sleeves so that his skin is guarded from the rough fabric.

Draco picks some beads of lint from his black skinny jeans. He takes his beanie off and pulls the hair tie from his bun, letting his hair fall to nearly his waist. Draco runs his fingers through it to smooth it down, then twists it back up into a neat bun. He replaces his beanie and let a little hair peek out at the front, the shock of it contrasting the colorless outfit well.

Satisfied, Draco tears his gaze away from his tired reflection, back to the task at hand. He pauses once again, letting the silence wash over him. All he can hear is his own breath. He inhales, long and deliberate, then twists the knob and pushes open the door.

The assault on his senses is immediate and all encompassing. Buses and cars honk and barrel past, the discussions of many passers-by come together to form one indistinguishable sound, the smells of the countless restaurants, bars, and bakeries mix together with exhaust and pollution, the chill of the air like a whip, causing a blush of red to creep over Draco’s cheeks. Colorful shop signs and marquees stand out against the dull buildings and streets. Dozens of people push past in every direction, each with a different purpose, a story behind every face. Every individual story and purpose leads to each individual person being where they are at this precise moment: in a faceless, bustling crowd in front of Draco’s flat. Draco takes one more breath before stepping onto the sidewalk, letting the door shut firmly behind him. Melting into the crowd, he becomes another individual face, indistinguishable amongst many.

Draco knows where he’s going and he know the quickest, most efficient route to get there. If he wanted to, he could be there in fifteen minutes or less with a short tube ride. He could use the apparition points, if he so desired. However, he has no reason to be in such a rush. He has no place he needs to be. No person he has to meet. No schedule he needs to stick to. He has no commitments, no reason to hurry.

It takes him an hour to walk there.

He keeps his gaze forward, barely registering the brushing of strangers’ shoulders, the shrill laughs of tourists and children and happy people, the brisk air or interesting smells of the city. He knows this walk by heart, only breaking his forward gaze to cross the streets. His mind is blissfully blank and he focuses on counting his breaths. He inhales, exhales. Repeat.

Draco turns one final corner, pushing through the people. Just ahead, he lets his gaze focus and land on his destination. He peers in through the front window, his eyes sweeping over the customers seated at the tables there. A girl pouring over notes and books, half-empty mug forgotten. Two elderly men chatting over tea. A worn mother leaning over a stroller. He reaches the dark oak door and pulls it open with a great effort. It creaks and groans in protest as Draco steps inside, breathing in the aroma of coffee and sweets. His shoulders, tense with the cold, drop as the warmth invades his coat. He sheds it as he approaches the counter, revealing a loose, light grey jumper beneath.

It’s bright in here, the cosy space lit with yellow lamps, intensified as the sky outside darkens further with the threat of rain. The shop is fairly busy, the buzz of conversation present inside as well as out. Beneath the hum of conversation, big band music is playing over the speakers. Draco lets the familiarity wash over him.

There’s only one person ahead of Draco in the queue. Draco stares at the back of her head. He inspects her expensive looking fur coat and long, dirty blonde hair, curled tightly beneath her hat. She’s substantially shorter than Draco, even in her high heeled boots. Draco imagines she’d hate for that coat to get rained on or for those boots to get splashed on. She’s clutching a large Selfridges bag in her hand. Draco sniffs. Figures.

After another moment, she steps aside, long golden nails tapping away on her mobile. Draco steps forward.

“Oh, hey, Draco,” the girl behind the register chirps, her fake smile becoming genuine as she leans on the counter.

“Maggie. How are you?” Draco responds, allowing a polite smile to form. It is nice to be recognized by name, and he truly does like Maggie, but the smile feels foreign and forced. It has for some time now.

“Oh, you know, workin’,” she sighs, tapping her fingers on the counter. “You?”

“Oh, you know, existing,” he responds. Maggie laughs like Draco just told her a joke. He didn’t.

Another girl appears behind Maggie and slides a ceramic mug and saucer across to Draco.

“Extra-shot latte for Draco,” she sings, Draco smiles in return, hoping once more it doesn’t look as forced as it feels.

“Cheers, Elle.”

Draco pays Maggie and drops a pound in the tip jar. He turns and scans the room, but the first floor is crowded. He ascends the creaky, wooden stairs to the second floor, careful not to spill a drop of his latte. The second floor is a balcony that extends around the perimeter of the space, as if someone cut out a giant square in the middle of a normal floor. Draco finds a table in the corner that overlooks the ground floor. A window on the far side of the room shows the first few drops of rain. Draco watches the raindrops on the window grow in number quickly. Before he knows it, there’s a downpour outside.

Draco returns his gaze to the ground floor, sipping his latte. It’s perfectly made, the extra shot giving it the espresso to milk ratio that Draco finds comfort in. The queue at the bar forms quickly as the rain drives people indoors. Draco watches on as people rush in, drenched from head to toe. Some are laughing and pointing at their friends, while others drip on the floor, scowls twisting their features something awful. No matter their mood, they are all full of life and emotion. Draco feels a familiar longing grow in his chest as he observes the scene. The laughs, the scowls, the pure displays of emotion. Draco finds his suppressed behind a heavy curtain in his mind. He doesn’t know exactly how it formed or when it got there, but he finds no reason to try and open it anyhow.

The crowd grows steadily as the sky outside darkens. Draco sips his latte as he observes each individual below. He finds some amount of amusement in creating little stories for every person, giving every otherwise meaningless face a purpose. Where they’re going, where they’re from, what their day looks like. Maggie and Elle are efficient behind the counter and the queue goes down quickly. Some patrons linger by the door, longing for the rain to stop. Others leave quickly, opening umbrellas as they struggle with the door, clutching paper cups. The folk who don’t seem to be in any such rush spread throughout the space, finding empty tables. Draco’s satisfied he got here when he did, as the final few seats quickly fill up.

After coming up with stories for those below, Draco moves to his floor, idly passing the time. Every once in awhile, he watches the rain pounding on the window. It creates more white noise that adds to the atmosphere around. He holds his mug with both hands. The warmth grounds him.

Time passes and the rain outside begins to lighten, slowly becoming nothing more than a drizzle. Draco’s mug has sat beside his elbow empty for a while now, and he takes his cue to leave.

Draco stands up slowly, pushing in his chair as quietly as possible. He slides on his coat and buttons up, then carries his empty mug and saucer downstairs, politely nodding to those that pass him on his way. With no one at the counter, Maggie and Elle are tidying up behind the bar, chatting and laughing as coworkers would. Draco approaches and hands his mug to Elle. She rings him up for a tea for take away and hands him a white paper cup that’s slightly too hot to the touch and smells of mint.

“See you tomorrow, Draco.”

Draco farewells them and pushes on the heavy oak door again, bracing himself for the chill.

Draco sips his tea gingerly, careful not to burn his tongue as he makes his way back to his flat, reversing the route. As the rain comes and goes, he casts a subtle impervius on himself in lieu of an umbrella. The walk back is as uneventful as the walk there.

Draco reaches his building just as the rain becomes heavy again, ducking through the door after discarding his drained cup in a nearby bin. He closes it after him, shutting out the pounding of the rain, the chatter of voices and the honk and motors of cars and buses. The darkness and silence of the hallway greets him like an old friend. Draco exhales slowly before starting up the four flights to his flat. His boots are loud despite his light steps and he receives breaks from the noise at each carpeted landing. Finally, he reaches his door.

Draco pulls the small key from his front pocket and slides it into the lock, twisting it. The sliding metal reverberates through the emptiness, the sound hitting his ears twice. 

He pushes open the door and slides into his flat, closing it shut behind him with a click. His flat is quiet and dark like the sky outside. He slides off his boots and turns on the lights with a flick of a switch. The short hallway awaits. Draco goes left into the living room. He discards his coat on the kitchenette countertop, making his way around the coffee table to the soft leather sofa that sits across the room. Draco falls into it, facing the window he accidently left cracked open. The rain has splattered inside, leaving the surrounding area damp.

Oh well, a little bit of water never hurt anyone. 

Draco sighs and lays his head back. He receives approximately two minutes of peace before a small barn owl flutters in though the open window, landing softly on the sofa arm beside him.

Draco stares at her for a few seconds, waiting for some sense of annoyance to come. He told his mother to use muggle post, thinking the frequent coming and going of owls would be distracting to the muggles. Still, she insists on owls.

Draco unties the letter from her leg and opens it slowly. The letter is nothing special, similar to the countless others he’s received from her. He shouldn’t bother opening it, really, but it is his mother, after all. And he knows the one letter he doesn’t open will end up being something actually important, anyways.

Draco flips the parchment over, flattening it on the coffee table. He rummages around drawers of the kitchenette and finally emerges with a ballpoint pen, his favorite muggle invention. He writes his declination to dinner on the back of the letter with the clever device, gives the barn owl a treat, then sends her on her way back into the rain. Draco almost feels sorry for the poor owl as he shuts his window after her.

He makes his way to the other end of the hall to his bedroom. He walks around the bed in the narrow space that’s left to retrieve his current book from the quaint bedside table. While there, he sheds the beanie and hair tie, letting his hair fall down his back. He immediately feels a little looser as he exhales. On his way back to the sofa, he stops in the kitchenette to pour himself a generous glass of wine.

Draco falls back into the worn leather, taking a sip from his glass as he finds his place in the book. He relaxes into the story, eyes skimming over the page, the quiet hum of the pouring rain outside a welcome comfort.

Tomorrow Draco will return to the coffee shop as always. Perhaps he’ll make a quick Tesco run after, only varying his routine slightly. Making as little impact as possible, trying to stay content.

Draco turns another page.

 

*******

 

As far as walks through central London go, today’s is more troublesome than usual. Draco bumps into too many strangers for his liking and loses focus counting breaths more than once. The hour commute now stretches on to nearly an hour and a half. Thankfully, no rain has fallen yet today, but if the darkening sky is anything to go by, yesterday’s weather will repeat itself.

At last, Draco reaches the oak door. He pulls it with great effort, letting a frazzled looking woman leave the shop before he enters. The longer commute allowed for the chill to settle within Draco further, so he decides to keep his coat for now. He adjusts his windswept hair, tucking loose strands back in the beany before he joins the queue, which is a few people longer today, despite the majority of the shop’s tables remaining vacant.

A man stands in front of him. His shoulders slump ever so slightly beneath a bomber jacket plastered with worn patches. The posture gives him an air of either nonchalance or fatigue, Draco hasn’t decided which quite yet. His dark, curly hair is long and wild on top, but shaved short on the sides.

Draco cocks his head, regarding the interesting look. The man pushes his hands into the pockets of his dark blue jeans. Draco regards the worn fabric idly. It hugs his body nicely. Tight enough to be considered fashionable, but not too tight that they’re obscene.

The man must sense the stare because he glances over his shoulder with a crease in his brow.

Draco freezes. He must be hallucinating or something. Maybe he finally is losing his mind because he swears the eyes that glance at him are the exact same shade and shape as _his_. The man’s glance is quick, just a normal over-the shoulder. Suddenly, the slumped shoulders tense and straighten, and the man looks over his shoulder again, twisting his body for a good look at Draco. Draco would normally be something like amused at such a theatrical double take, but at the moment he can’t find it in him.

Draco is certain he’s seeing things now. He stays frozen, head still tilted, grey eyes wide and locked on those jade ones that stare back.

A shared moment of bewilderment passes and nearly reaches the awkward stage before Potter speaks, breaking Draco out of his reverie.

“Malfoy?” He sounds surprised, or like he’s speaking Draco’s surname for the first time, testing it out. It’s nothing like the way he’s used to hearing that voice speak his name. That enough shakes Draco out of it.

“Potter,” Draco speaks simply and with purpose, as he always does. His voice is a little scratchy with disuse from the morning.

At least three different emotions pass through those green eyes. Draco catches confusion, surprise, and annoyance among them. He can’t bring himself to feel much of anything towards the man that stands before him after the initial shock, which has already passed.

“What are you doing here?” Potter picks mild annoyance as his final emotion, it seems. His mouth quirks to the side, replicating the way it did at Hogwarts whenever he’d get frustrated with Draco.

“Standing in a queue, and yourself?” Draco replies. He wonders what Potter sees in his eyes. He doubts it’s as much of a show as what’s playing in Potter’s.

Potter’s gaze scans over Draco’s face, brows knitting together as it trails down his body and back up again. Draco’s outfit is nearly identical to yesterdays, although the jeans he picked today happen to be a little higher end. Draco is somewhat glad for the fact, considering this unexpected company. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and rests his weight over one hip.

“Same as you,” Potter settles on. It isn’t very clever, Draco muses, but Potter persists with the tone, as if Draco’s presence in the coffee shop he patrons every damn day is equivalent to that of a buzzing fly that hovers next to one’s ear. Potter’s the stranger here, after all.

Potter continues to scrutinize Draco, which Draco does not care for at all. He removes his hands from his pockets and rests one on his popped hip. He presses the other into his thigh and rubs a circle into the fabric, a nervous gesture of Draco’s. He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

He glances past Potter to see no one else waiting in front of him in the queue. Maggie waits behind the till and smiles at Draco. Draco nods back, then returns his gaze to Potter’s, whose look has softened slightly in the meantime.

“Are you going to scrutinize me all day or are you going to order?” Draco asks. Potter rolls his eyes in response. Draco’s face remains blank as ever, his voice steady as ever. There wasn’t a bite to the remark. Potter’s giving Draco too much credit here.

Potter turns sharply and steps to the counter. Maggie politely takes his order. Lex is working today instead of Elle. Draco watches her as she pops the lid on a cold latte and calls it out. Draco thinks it’s mental to be ordering a cold drink in weather like this. Lex winks at him as she reaches for the next cup.

After a moment, Potter steps aside and joins the small group of people waiting for drinks beside the bar.

“Hey, how’s Draco today?” Maggie asks, dropping her customer service façade as Draco steps forward.

“Brilliant as ever, how’s Maggie?” He replies, trying for a smile. Maggie’s returning smile is genuine, reaching through her eyes.

“Same old, you know?” Maggie rolls those eyes playfully. “Joy’s been in and out all day. Slavedriver, that woman is.”

Draco thinks of the severe looking woman who owns the shop. She’s overly jovial with the customers, an attitude she maintains to order around the baristas. It really doesn’t match with her whole look, and being ordered what to do in that tone of voice is off-putting, to say the least.

It’s nearly as off putting as Potter’s gaze, which Draco can feel all over him.

From behind Maggie, Lex lets out an exasperated sigh as she tamps espresso, perhaps too forcefully. “It’s a wonder we haven’t exploded yet.”

Draco lets out an empty chuckle and shakes his head.

“I don’t know how you do girls do it,” he responds, allowing a hint of amusement to lighten his tone.

“Honestly, me neither,” Maggie laughs, accepting Draco’s money. He drops a pound into the tip jar. “Up to anything interesting today?”

“As a matter of fact,” Draco replies, quirking an eyebrow. Maggie eyes dart up, looking hopeful. “No.” 

Maggie deflates and swats Draco with a handful of receipts, then disappears behind the espresso machine to pull shots. These interactions are the highlight of Draco’s day, something he doesn’t quite know how to feel about.

“You need a life!” She teases, emerging beside the machine, a steaming pitcher of milk in her hands. Draco shrugs.

“Don’t we all?” He tilts his head and gives her a pointed look.

“Hey,” she dumps three shots into a ceramic mug and begins to top it with the steamed froth, “this isn’t about _me!_ ”

She slides the mug across the counter. Draco peers into it, nearly snorting at the heart that greets him in the foam.

“What’s this supposed to mean?” 

“I’m giving you a heart as you don’t have one.”

Draco’s eyes snap back to hers. “That’s very funny.”

She hums. “I know.”

Draco scoffs in mock offense, then turns around, leaving Maggie to tend to the next customer. He only makes it a few steps before he’s intercepted by Potter. He nearly forgot Potter had been watching that charming exchange.

“They know you,” he states.

“So observant, you are,” Draco replies. Honestly, what does Potter want from him?

“Do you come here a lot?” Potter asks.

“Does it matter?” Draco says, more statement than question, trying to step around Potter with limited success. Potter does look taken aback, though. Ever so slightly.

“No, I guess not—”

“Then we’re done here,” Draco seizes his chance and steps around Potter, who is probably still trying to work out what just happened. He brushes by without a second glance. He has no reason to speak with Potter, who was annoyed at Draco’s presence minutes before. Rude behavior like that does not warrant conversation, in Draco’s opinion.

Draco goes up the stairs rather hurriedly and finds a table. Today the one next to the large window is available. Draco sets his latte down and unbuttons his coat, sliding the heavy material off his shoulders. He drapes it over the seat, then sits down, eyes drifting to the floor below. Potter is nowhere to be found.

Draco sighs and closes his eyes, taking a sip of his latte. It’s perfect, as always, although the sip destroys the heart in the foam. He counts his breaths until Potter is out of his mind. 

Draco finds a group of teenage girls seated nearby, heads huddled around the center. He thinks up a little story for each of them based on their appearance, actions, and general vibe before moving on to another table, repeating the process. Very soon, Potter is the furthest thing from Draco’s thoughts as he plots out how the sly looking woman from the corner table downstairs is planning on murdering the man she’s with. If looks could kill, he’d already be dead.

The time ticks by until Draco feels ready to leave. His quietly pushes in his chair and slides his coat on. His gaze lingers on the sky through the window. It still threatens rain, although none has dropped quite yet.

Draco collects his tea after a short conversation with Lex and departs the shop, feeling refreshed. He strays from his usual route and instead makes his way to Tesco, as planned, counting breaths all the way, gaze straight ahead. No second thought of Harry Potter crosses his mind.


	2. Chapter 2

A week passes in which Draco repeats his routine. Wake up, shower, dress, eat, read, coffee, wine, read, eat, bed. The routine varies slightly from day to day. Sometimes he answers a letter from his mother, sometimes he goes shopping or buys a new book. Sometimes he wanders outside and just walks and walks with no where in mind, or perhaps he catches a train on the tube and just rides. Money is never an issue as he’s sitting on the Malfoy’s wealth. Draco barely does a thing, making as little impact as possible, trying his best to fade away into the background. Nothing has gone amiss thus far.

Draco hasn’t given the chance meeting with Potter any further thought. He’s been going to the shop daily for months, every visit Potterless. It was happenstance that he would be there in the timeslot Draco goes. With the amount of time Draco spends there, it would be pretty difficult not to bump into him. He figures it was coincidence, Potter has never been at the shop before, why should he appear again? The situation has been reasoned out.

Which is why Draco’s surprised to see Potter back again today. Draco ducks inside, out of the downpour, pulling at the door with all of his might. His impervius was cast a little too late, so he is a bit wet, but not drenched. He gently kicks the door shut behind him and looks at the queue. Potter is ordering. Draco freezes at the sight, then pulls himself together and sighs. Maggie is off today, it seems, but Lex and Elle are there along with another barista, Afifa.

Elle is making small talk with Potter as she writes on his cup. Draco approaches the counter, and Elle smiles past Potter at him and waves. Potter turns around and pauses mid-sentence in shock.

“Hey,” Draco says when Potter doesn’t continue within a reasonable amount of time.

“Hiya, Draco!” Afifa greets him as she passes behind the bar. 

Lex looks up from measuring syrups and smirks at him. “What’s up?”

Draco returns the greeting politely, complimenting Afifa’s colorful headscarf. Draco steps past the still-staring Potter to pay Elle, dropping a pound in the tip jar. Potter seems to finally get ahold of himself. It’s a mystery to Draco, what goes on in that head of his.

“All right, Malfoy?” Today Potter goes for confusion instead of annoyance.

“Yes,” Malfoy replies. Elle gives them a curious glance as she starts on Draco’s latte. “Yourself?”

“All right,” Potter coughs. Draco doesn’t know what to say to that, so he says nothing. Afifa slides a cold drink on the bar to Potter. Figures. Of course he’d order an iced drink when it’s freezing rain outside.

“Your Americano, sir,” she gives Potter an award winning smile as he takes it with a thanks. Afifa raises an eyebrow at Draco before returning to clean the bar. Draco never chats with other customers in the queue, and has not once entered the shop with anyone else.

“Draco,” Lex slides him a mug.

“Cheers. See you, Potter,” Draco says, starting for an open table in an alcove on the ground floor. He barely makes it three steps before Potter stops him.

“Wait,” he stutters, “can I join you?” 

Draco stops and stares at Potter, waiting for a snide remark or comment, but it never comes. Potter maintains the eyes contact. Not knowing what to make of the situation and too tired to consider what Potter’s ulterior motive may be, Draco replies, “I suppose.”

Draco sets his mug on the table and slides off his damp coat, draping it over the back of the chair facing the bar. Potter takes the chair opposite. They sit simultaneously.

Draco takes a sip from his latte, observing Potter over the mug. His shoulders are a little tense and he’s drumming his fingers on the table top, looking away from Draco. Definitely nervous. Draco assesses himself. He’s completely relaxed, although a little confused. Beyond that, he feels nothing towards the odd situation.

“How’ve you been?” Potter inquires, somewhat awkwardly. Draco looks back towards Potter’s eyes. He seems sincere, as far as Draco can tell. That’s a new look coming from him, at least directed at Draco.

“Fine,” he replies. He doesn’t know what Potter wants and doesn’t care to really converse with him, but it would be rude to be short with him. Draco can’t bring himself to be rude anymore, but this is Potter. He needs to up his game a little. He decides on, “How’s our Saviour doing?”

Potter draws his eyebrows together at the title. “Don’t call me that.”

Draco shrugs and takes another small sip.

“But I’ve been pretty good,” he replies, grasping at conversation straws. “I like being an Auror and all. Keeps me busy and it’s good work.”

Draco just nods. Potter seems to want to talk more. He does.

“What have you been up to?” He asks.

“Oh, well,” Draco begins, but pauses, unable to continue. 

Draco doesn’t exactly want to answer. Compared to Potter being wizarding England’s favourite person and living out their Auror Potter fantasies, Draco is nothing. He could disappear and the world would go on without him all the same. Probably better, the more he thinks on it. What has he done that’s helped anyone?

“Not much,” Draco comes up with.

“What do you do for work?” Potter prods.

At that, Draco can at least scoff. “I don’t _work_ , Potter. I’m a Malfoy, I have all the wealth I’ll ever require without working.”

At one time, that brag would have made Draco feel good, great, something, but not today. Today, it’s just an empty reply. He wishes he could answer that question with something else. Something meaningful. But he can’t.

“Figures,” Potter sighs, looking a little disappointed. “Just spend all your wealth on coffee, then?” He scoffs. Draco resents the look Potter’s giving him.

Draco finds himself actually becoming a little indignant at that. Of course he doesn’t spend all of his money on himself. He’s donated most of his share to various charities, from war repairs to orphanages. All have been anonymous. Draco wants nothing to do with the news, and they’d just twist it to sound selfish, anyways. It’s easier that way. Because of it, of course Potter wouldn’t know. Draco left enough money for himself to live comfortably in his little flat, which isn’t cheap by any means. It is in central London, after all.

Instead of telling Potter this—Why should he care anyways?—Draco just snorts. “ _No._ Of course not.”

Potter squints at him, trying to determine what Draco means. Draco’s not going to elaborate.

Draco only speaks if spoken to or expected to, given the social situation. It’s a rule he made for himself. At one point in his life, Draco dreamt of transforming the world. That dream died the day he stained his skin black with an ugly skull and serpent. After all he’s done, Draco tries to do as little as possible to the world. Any transformation he’d make would just turn it ugly, and he doesn’t want to hurt it anymore.

But now, without realizing it, Draco asks a question unprompted.

“Tell, me, Potter. What are you doing around here?”

“Working on a case in the area,” he says immediately, apparently relieved at the participation from Draco’s end. Draco mulls this over as Potter sips his drink. “The baristas know you well and both times I’ve been in, you’ve been here. You live around here?”

“No,” Draco says. It’s true, he doesn’t. He lives near Leicester Square and the shop is in Camden Town. 

“Then how are you here all the time, if not for work?” Potter presses.

“Stop questioning me, I’m not one of your suspects,” Draco mutters. “Or am I?”

It would explain what Potter’s doing here.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Potter rolls his eyes.

“Then why the sudden interest, Potter?” Draco raises one eyebrow, an action he hasn’t performed in forever. Potter’s really pulling all stops from Draco. Draco wishes he’d stop.

“Curious is all,” Potter says. He opens his mouth as if to continue, then shakes his head and closes it again. He sits back in his chair, regarding Draco. Draco doesn’t break eye contact. “You seem . . .”

Potter tilts his head and continues to scrutinize. Draco looks past him to see the baristas watching them with curiosity. They look away quickly and begin chatting amongst each other. Draco returns his gaze to the man across from him.

“Are you going to finish that sentence?” Draco drawls.

“I don’t know,” Potter replies casually, sipping his drink.

Draco doesn’t speak and returns to his coffee. He glances at the table next to them. A boy is surrounded by notebooks and pens and is reading frantically through a tattered textbook, eyes darting from word to word. A laptop is open to some document at the far end of the table, headphones plugged in. It’s nearly exam time for students, Draco realizes. Draco wonders if he ever looked that frazzled studying for exams. Not that anyone would have seen it.

In school, Draco conveyed effortless brilliance. No one saw him study, but he remained second highest in his year right behind Granger, much to his younger self’s chagrin. However, come nightfall, Draco would draw his bed curtains shut tight and study relentlessly under the light of lumos, heavy curtain fabric locking the light within. Parchment and books spread across the duvet, coffee mug and ink bottle charmed to hover beside him, Draco would never let anyone see. He’d even disguise his textbooks to look like regular novels if he was desperate and had to cram during the day. The other Slytherins and many Ravenclaws marvelled at him, asking him his secrets, how he could remember it all without studying. Even Granger had to study, but Draco never did. Not to others. It was Draco’s pride.

Draco can’t imagine putting that much effort into anything anymore.

Draco breaks out of his reverie, eyes sliding back to Potter. He’s regarding Draco again with that searching look.

“What?” He asks.

“Nothing,” Potter replies, averting his gaze.

Draco continues to study the people in the shop today. Every once in a while, he feels Potter’s eyes on him. The silence isn’t awkward, at least not to Draco. Having company is different, though, especially considering who it is.

Draco’s nearly finished with his latte when the screech of a chair on wood distracts him from his current customer tale. Potter stands up.

“I should probably get back to work, I didn’t realize the time,” He says.

Draco nods. Potter waits another moment, probably expecting some further reply from Draco. Draco has none.

“Bye, then,” he mumbles with a curt nod to Draco. He turns and walks away. Draco watches him leave, pushing open that heavy door. Potter glances over his shoulder at Draco before exiting. He catches Draco watching and looks away quickly. The door closes after him with a thud. Draco stares at the door for a little while until another customer enters. Draco makes up something for her as he finishes his latte.

He stands and slides his coat on. He pushes in both chairs, as Potter didn’t bother with his, then deposits his mug at the counter.

“Who was that?” Lex asks without preamble. She takes the mug and begins on Draco’s tea.

“Someone I knew from school,” Draco replies.

“He was here the other day, wasn’t he?” Lex presses.

“Yes.”

“I remember because you talked to him.”

“I did,” Draco knows what she’s trying to do.

“I don’t see you talk to other customers,” Lex gives him a pointed look and hands him his tea.

“Because I don’t,” Draco pays her.

“But you talked to him,” Lex hums.

“Yes, because I knew him, that’s been established. Are we done here?” Draco finishes.

“For now,” she replies ominously. Draco thanks her for the tea and leaves, pushing the door open with more force than necessary, which is saying something.

This time, Potter doesn’t leave Draco’s mind the whole way home.

When Draco arrives back at his flat, a fresh bottle of wine under his arm, another dinner invitation from his mother is awaiting him. Draco declines without a second thought.

 

*******

 

“Can I sit?”

Draco glances away from the couple he’s been observing to find Potter standing next to the table. His face is set and shoulders square. The bomber jacket is back again, layered over a red T-shirt.

“Okay,” Draco replies.

Potter pulls the opposite chair out loudly and sits, staring at Draco. Draco stares back, face blank.

When Potter says nothing, but continues to watch Draco, Draco begins to rub circles into the fabric of his trousers and looks away. Maggie and Afifa quickly avert their eyes from the scene. Draco finds that amusing.

“Are you here everyday?” Potter finally asks, to Draco’s relief.

“Yes.”

“What do you do here?” Potter asks.

“Why do you interrogate me every time you see me?” Draco retorts, incredulous.

“I do not—” Potter stammers, but falters and deflates, averting his eyes. “Fair point,” Potter finishes, sipping his iced Americano.

Draco smirks. It takes him a moment to realize his reaction, and he’s rather surprised with himself, smirk dropping. He raises hand to his cheek subconsciously, wondering where on earth that came from.

He hasn’t smiled like that in forever. Given it wasn’t exactly a smile, but still.

Potter eyes him from over his cup.

Suddenly Draco feels warm, despite already shedding his coat. He pulls his beanie off, feeling refreshed as the air hits his head. He pulls the hair tie from its knot and lets his hair fall behind him. It catches on his jumper, and Draco runs both hands through it so it falls easier. He feels better immediately.

He tucks a loose strand behind his hair and catches Potter staring, mouth hanging wide open.

“What?” Draco snaps.

“I . . .” Potter swallows. It’s comical, really. “I didn’t know you had long hair.”

Draco shrugs, sipping his latte. He just never bothered to cut it. There wasn’t a point to, really.

“You don’t talk a lot,” Potter observes. Draco’s eyes snap back towards Potter. He doesn’t look as if he’s expecting an answer. He’s not even looking at Draco. Draco wonders if he even meant to say it aloud. He doesn’t reply.

Potter’s right, after all.

Draco watches Maggie and Afifa hustle behind the bar as the queue lengthens. He wonders idly if Joy will hire any more baristas. Ever since Halloween it’s been busier and busier around the place.

Draco can feel Potter boring into him. Draco wants to say something, but just stares back at Potter, who tilts his head.

“Different,” Potter mutters.

“What?” Draco asks.

“Different,” Potter repeats. “You seem different.”

Draco remembers their previous conversation a few days back when Potter had trailed off mid sentence.

“So do you,” Draco replies.

“How?” Potter looks genuinely interested, albeit slightly confused.

Draco inhales sharply as if to speak, then closes his mouth. He regards Potter for a moment, finding his phrasing before continuing.

“It feels like you’re holding back,” Draco says. “The Harry Potter I remember never did.”

Potter looks taken aback, like Draco had said the one thing Potter would least expect.

“You also think before you speak. And you don’t lash out if I’m sarcastic with you,” Draco continues as the thoughts arrive.

Potter stares at him for a moment before speaking, regaining his composure quickly. “You haven’t been sarcastic with me.”

Draco knows he has been, at least a little. The thing is, he hasn’t had much practice in being sarcastic recently, unless you count the small quips with Maggie and Lex. Those hardly count.

“I guess I’ve lost my touch,” Draco sighs.

Moments of silence pass. Draco listens to the chatter around them, musing on the fact.

Suddenly, Potter makes a noise like he just made up his mind. Draco glances at him expectantly, sipping his latte. Potter’s deep green eyes are locked on Draco’s. He looks as if he’s seeing Draco for the first time. Draco feels unsettled, gaze dropping downward.

“You seem like you’re trying to take up as little room as possible,” Potter observes in a near whisper.

Draco freezes, mug halfway to his lips. He’s staring into the foam, suddenly feeling like someone punched him in the gut. Lex made a leaf in the latte today. Yesterday it was another heart. The day before it was nothing, just a shapeless form of froth and espresso.

Nothing. That’s what Draco is doing. That’s what Draco is in this world. He swallows back the emotion that rises in his throat, not understanding how Potter could see right through him so easily, so quickly.

A strand of hair slips from behind Draco’s ear, falling in front of his eyes. Draco makes no move to return it.

“The Malfoy I once knew filled up a room with his presence. He made sure he was seen. Made sure he was heard.”

Draco watches the leaf slowly dissipate into the milk and espresso, fading away back into nothing. Potter’s trying to get to him, but Draco can’t let him. 

“You saw how that worked out for him, didn’t you?” Draco replies hotly, not looking up from his mug.

Potter quirks his mouth to one side when Draco finally does look up.

“What are you doing here, Potter?”

“I told you, working on a case.” He sits back in his chair.

“You know what I’m asking,” Malfoy tilts his head, the movement shifting more strands of white-blond hair. Potter watches them fall.

“Trying to find someone,” Potter replies. Draco doesn’t.

He looks away, bringing his mug to his lips. He’s too distracted to come up with a story for anyone today. He can’t let Potter get to him.

Potter leaves minutes later without a word. Draco hears the door close behind him. Today he’s only met with vague looks as he collects his tea, no questions asks. Draco’s thankful for small mercies.

 

*******

 

Draco takes his time walking home. He’s never in any particular rush, but he always walks with purpose, looking straight ahead. Not today.

Today he feels rather dazed and the walk resembles more a wander. What Potter said shouldn’t get to him. He isn’t trying to take up room or make his presence known. In fact, the opposite is more like it. He knows this. Why does Potter saying it bother him?

Maybe it’s because Potter knew what he used to be like, back when he dreamt of transforming the world, before Draco drew the curtains around his mind. Maybe it’s because he’s gone so long without seeing someone from the wizarding world that seeing Potter, of all people, is reminding him too much of before. It’s stirring up emotions and memories Draco’s let settle. Maybe it’s simply because it’s Potter. He’s always let Potter get to him.

And then Potter told Draco he was trying to find someone. What on earth is that supposed to mean? Draco doesn’t try to think too hard on it.

Before Draco knows it, he’s home. He pushes open the building door, the silence and darkness greeting him. It’s really dark in this hall. Draco wishes someone would change that lightbulb. 

He pounds up the flights of stairs and pushes his way into his flat. The couch is comfortable and welcomes Draco. He curls into it and stares out at the building across from him. The flat in his line of vision is plainly visible, curtains wide open. He squints to see in. He knows it’s a bit of a privacy invasion, but what is he going to do anyways?

He watches a woman inside swish a dress around her slender legs. She seems to be looking in a mirror. The woman contorts her face into a pout, then returns it to a wide smile and poses over and over. The dress is a deep red and looks absolutely elegant. She leans forward and pulls out a tube of lipstick, the color matching her dress. Pursing her lips, she gingerly applies it, then ducks away, out of Draco’s sight.

She’s young and single and carefree, going out on a fancy date by the looks of the situation. She has plans. She has aspirations. She has hopes and dreams for tonight.

So full of life and energy. She’s doing something. Perhaps she’s going to an event. Maybe she’s giving a speech tonight that hundreds of ears will hear. Maybe she’s trying to transform the world. The possibilities for her are endless.

Draco stands up with a flourish and pulls his dull curtain shut with enough force to tear it. He clutches the fabric between his fingers, feeling like he’s going to be sick. Draco gulps at the air, trying to breathe calmly, willing the sudden feeling away.

The feeling subsides and Draco takes a deep breath, releasing the curtain from his grip. Draco shakes his head, deciding he’s being ridiculous. He pours himself a glass of wine and resumes his current read, another Agatha Christie novel. It takes him a few pages to settle into it, but he’s determined. Eventually, the wine makes its way to his head and Draco can relax into the book, calm once more.

That night he dreams of bomber jackets and red dresses.

 

*******

 

A few days have passed since, which allow Draco to settle back into his routine without too much difficulty, his mind now set right. He’s sitting at one of the front window seats today. With a clear view of the bar, he can watch Joy create chaos behind it, pulling out random bins and stock, chattering rapidly about what to do and when to do it. She’s now talking to Lex, waving her hands in grand gestures. Lex looks past Joy’s shoulder and gives Draco a pained look. Draco waves in return.

The door opens with a show, loud and creaky and heavy. Potter emerges from behind it. Draco mentally sighs, bidding farewell to his quiet day at once. Potter acknowledges Draco with an actual smile. Draco gives no greeting, but watches Potter as he approaches the counter and orders.

He receives his iced concoction and makes his way to Draco’s table. The heathen doesn’t even ask, he just sits down like he belongs there.

“Hi,” he says. Draco takes a deep sip from his mug in response, staring Potter down. He tries not to think of what Potter said to him last time.

Trying to take up as little room as possible.

Upon receiving no further greeting, Potter pulls a rather worn looking file case from the inside of his jacket. He opens it flat on the table, then digs around the jacket’s many interior pockets for a pen. Draco observes the scene as Potter begins working.

Minutes pass until Draco can’t take it anymore.

“What are you doing?”

“Working,” Potter replies without looking up.

Suddenly, Potter stops scratching into the parchment. His eyes glance up at Draco’s above the rims of his glasses. He sets the pen down and looks at Draco. 

“What?” Draco snaps. He tucks a loose strand of hair behind his ears. Since their last meeting, Draco has worn it down under his beanie.

“What are _you_ doing?” He demands.

“I beg your pardon?” Draco sputters. Potter continues to bore into him with those green eyes.

“You heard me, Malfoy,” Potter sits back in his chair and crosses his arms, waiting for Draco to react.

Draco feels indignant once more.

“I don’t understand why you even care,” Draco let’s his indignance melt away into anger. It seeps into his response, ever so slightly. He feels the scowl forming without his permission. How dare Potter disrupt his life like this, share a few unwanted coffees, then see right through him with those ridiculous eyes and Auror-trained perception, shaking Draco up so much through a simple observation? Draco feels suffocated by Potter, not unlike sixth year. The feeling is all too similar.

“I don’t understand why you _don’t_ care,” Potter retorts, leaning forward. “You don’t care at all.”

“What are you even talking about?” Draco snaps, perhaps too loudly. He notices the tables around them glance their way.

“Are you really Draco Malfoy?” Potter’s voice is cutting and serious. “Because the Malfoy I know would definitely have hexed me by now. Instead you’re just taking this, hardly getting angry, hardly caring about yourself, if at all. Where’s your pride? Your voice?” Potter retorts, his volume continually rising. The tables around have definitely taken notice now.

Draco can’t bring himself to care. He can feel the anger rising in his chest, the strength of the emotion taking over, blowing at the curtain. He is not dealing with this now, not here. Draco tears his gaze from Potter and stands abruptly, chair screeching backwards across the worn wooden floor. He takes his coat and storms out of the shop, throwing his weight into the door. 

He makes it a good fifteen steps before he feels a hand on his shoulder. Draco whips around to see Potter standing before him.

“Why are you doing this, Potter?” Draco demands, voice calm.

“I’m trying to figure you out,” Potter replies as if it’s obvious.

“You’re wasting your time,” Draco scoffs, turning back around.

“Why aren’t you getting angry?” Potter’s hand is back on his shoulder. Draco shakes it off and whips back around, taking steps away from the man before him. People are rushing past in both directions, glancing their direction as if they sense what’s about to happen.

“I am angry,” Draco says. And he is, despite himself, the emotion billowing behind the curtain.

“You call this angry?” Potter advances on Draco.

“Potter,” Draco warns. Potter is suddenly standing in his face. Draco doesn’t back down.

“Malfoy, where did you go?” Potter is an inch from him.

“Stop talking to me like that,” Draco demands.

“Sorry, didn’t catch that,” Potter replies, tugging at the curtain with great force.

“I said _stop_ ,” Draco insists, feeling the anger rise ever more.

“What?” Potter asks, as if Draco isn’t making a sound.

And suddenly, the curtain tears.

“I said _stop_ ,” Draco yells. Potter’s eyes widen, and that opens the window for Draco to continue. “Stop talking to me with that Auror voice of yours, asking me all of these cryptic questions and saying things like—asking where Draco Malfoy went,” Draco takes a step towards Potter, barely processing anything before it’s out of his mouth. He can’t get any closer, so Potter retreats. “I’m _right here!_ You’re being ridiculous, _stop_ trying to get to me. You’re out of your bloody mind, Potter.”

Draco takes a deep breath, regaining control of himself. He hasn’t been that fired up in years, hasn’t yelled like that in ages. He glances past Potter to see Maggie and Lex watching the scene from outside the shop, jaws on the ground.

Draco glances back at Potter, who is wearing a smug smile.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Draco takes a step back, realizing how close to Potter’s face he really is.

“ _That’s_ who I’ve been looking for.”

Draco turns sharply on his heel and strides far away from Potter, willing his frantic energy away. He turns the corner and is relieved when no one follows.

He’s all worked up, breathing heavily and everything. He is pissed. Or maybe he was. Now he just can’t believe that happened.

No matter how much Draco hates the fact, Potter is absolutely right. He sees right through Draco and gets to him like no one else. Draco isn’t who he was before. He’s making himself smaller and he doesn’t care about himself in the slightest. And he can’t stand it. He pretends like it’s all okay. He pretends like he wants to be like this. But he hates it.

But he’s terrified to be any other way. So he’s shut windows and built curtains.

Potter sees this with such clarity, then pushes and prods and aggravates until he tears the curtains down and breaks these windows. And why? Because he’s bored? Does this amuse him? Because he cares, of all things? God, Draco doesn’t _know._

Potter is out of Draco’s mind.

He can’t wrap his head around why someone would care like that about him, if that’s what that display was. It was utterly humiliating on Draco’s end and didn’t make much sense. But it worked. It was _so Potter._

Draco makes it back to his flat, the entire walk a blur of pent up emotions that Draco hasn’t let affect him in months. He’s utterly overwhelmed by them. Confusion, anger, wonder at Potter. Sadness that he let himself become so empty that a mere outburst affects him like this. Defeated, because Potter was right.

Draco collapses on the couch with a heavy glass of wine. He stares past the open curtains and drinks until the emotions wash away into nothing.


	3. Chapter 3

Draco wakes up, wincing at the blinding sun. His neck aches something dreadful, and he has a pounding headache. This leathery material beneath him is most certainly his couch and not his bed.

He lays there breathing for a good twenty minutes, willing the headache away. As soon as the pounding begins to subside, Draco sits up, groaning. He runs his hand through his hair, rather unsuccessfully, as it catches on dozens of knots. He doesn’t even want to look in a mirror.

He finds his way to the tap and downs two glasses of water, then wrestles his tangled mane into some type of messy bun. It can’t be pretty, but it’s functional.

Draco casts a tempus, finding it to be nearly one in the afternoon. He sighs. The flood of emotions really drained him, and of course the alcohol didn’t help the situation. All because of . . .

Potter.

Draco showers, pushing the thought aside, brushing and pulling at his hair until it’s knot-free, although rather frizzy. Draco spells it dry and uses some specialty charm work he used to watch his mother perform to alleviate the frizz, letting it fall gracefully down his back.

He opens his bedroom window to let the steam out, remembering the sun that woke him up. For the first day in ages, it isn’t cloudy. It’s still somewhat chilly, but the sun gives the air some more warmth and feeling to it.

Draco dresses in a lightweight green jumper and light grey trousers, leaving the beanie and coat behind. He’d most definitely be at the coffee shop by now on a normal day. Draco winces, remembering yesterday’s scene.

He goes to the shop everyday, never once breaking his routine, hardly speaking unless spoken to by the baristas. He wonders what the girls must think of him now, storming out of the shop and screaming at Potter.

Oh yeah, he did that, too. Draco sighs. He hasn’t been that affected in ages.

Nothing for it, Draco leaves the flat, floating down the stairs without the weight of his coat around him. He scowls at the burnt out light before joining the commute outside.

The walk is pleasant. For once, Draco observes the people around him instead of keeping his gaze forward, counting breaths. The nice weather has everyone’s spirits high. People dress lighter and walk with a spring in their step. Draco hears more laughs and upbeat conversation. It’s rather lovely, actually. Peaceful in an unexpected sort of way.

Draco arrives at the coffee shop in high spirits. Even the door seems lighter.

Maggie is at the counter today. She’s currently scrubbing down the espresso machine, but drops her brush as soon as she spots Draco.

“Draco!” Maggie leans against the counter as Draco approaches.

“Hi,” he says. “How are you?”

“How are _you?_ ” Maggie squeals, eyes darting to the clock. “Do you see the time? I swore you weren’t coming in today. It was freaking me out.”

“Oh,” Draco waves a dismissive hand. “I slept in on accident.”

“What was _that_ yesterday?” Maggie is insistent. She even slaps the counter for emphasis. 

“Just a disagreement,” Draco is starting to feel a little self-conscious at her tone.

“Just a disagreement, he says,” Maggie rolls her eyes and waves a finger at him. “I’ve barely seen you talk to people, you hardly smile at me, you’re always so calm and polite. Suddenly this guy starts sitting with you and you explode, storming out of the shop, yelling at the top of your voice down the block!” Maggie looks bewildered. “That was not a disagreement. I’ve never seen you like that.”

“Well, I’m fine,” Draco assures her. She gives him a skeptical once over.

“I like your outfit,” she compliments with a sudden tone change.

“Oh,” Draco looks down at himself, “well, thanks. The weather’s nice and all, you know?”

Draco pays her and she slides him a mug.

“He’s here, you know,” Maggie whispers as Draco takes the mug.

“Who?”

“That guy who you yelled at,” Maggie nods at a seat upstairs. Draco turns and looks up. Sure enough, Potter is sitting at a table upstairs, surrounded by files. “Joy was livid yesterday, would have kicked him out if he came back in after you left.”

Draco stares at Potter. He’s wearing the bomber jacket still and doesn’t seem to have noticed Draco yet.

“Thanks, Mags,” Draco nods at her. She just watches him go upstairs, a confused look on her face at the decision. Draco walks towards Potter. He doesn’t even know why he’s doing this, he should probably just sit somewhere downstairs and ignore Potter.

Maybe he’s just out of his mind.

Draco sets his latte down with a clatter. The chair screeches as he pulls it out. Potter looks up, startled. Draco sits, coming to a decision.

“I make up stories,” Draco answers without preamble, sipping his latte. Potter still looks bewildered. His mouth opens and closes twice before he responds.

“What?”

“You asked what I do here,” Draco continues. “I make up stories.”

“Oh,” Potter says, expectantly. He closes the file in front of him. “What about?”

For an answer, Draco turns in his chair, scoping out a good candidate. His gaze lands on a nervous looking kid sitting downstairs.

“See that kid in the corner seat by the bar?” Draco leans closer to Potter, nodding in the kid’s direction. Potter looks in that direction, then back at Draco.

“Yeah?” Potter still appears confused.

“What do you think his name is?” Malfoy wonders.

“I don’t . . .” Potter trails off.

“It all starts with a name,” Draco explains. “Names come with a lot of connotation. They can tell a story all by themselves. They set the scene, the background, the tone for the person.”

Potter glances back at the kid. Draco can see it in his eyes the moment it clicks.

“Garrett. He looks like a Garrett,” Potter replies.

“Good, I was thinking something similar,” Draco continues. “Garrett looks pretty nervous, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Potter agrees, glancing sidelong at Draco. Draco continues to study Garrett.

“See how he doesn’t have a drink in front of him? He hasn’t ordered yet, meaning he’s waiting for someone,” Draco explains. “By the tapping of his foot and the way he glances at the door whenever it opens, only to be met with disappointment, he’s definitely been waiting for a while. Poor Garrett’s been stood up,” Draco glances at Potter then. Potter’s looking at him with an odd expression. Draco continues his story.

“That’s only the cover of the story, but there’s always another layer. Why is he being stood up? Is it because his date doesn’t like him? That’s simple enough. But maybe she’s been in an accident and Garrett doesn’t know. She could be dead right now, and Garrett is only worried about being stood up. What if she was hopelessly in love with him and he’ll never know?”

Potter looks back at Garrett, who looks distressed as ever. No one else is paying the boy any attention. But Draco’s always paying attention.

“Is this what you do everyday?” Potter questions.

“As lame as you may find it, yes,” Draco replies honestly, curtains thrown open. “Every person has a story. In a big city like London the stories all fade into the background, and every individual person becomes a nobody in the crowd,” Draco tilts his head and he tries to explain to Potter. “I think it’s important to not let those stories fade away. Even if mine are all fictional, at least I’m giving every face a name and purpose. Otherwise everyone I see is just a background nobody in my life, nameless and without purpose, and how depressing is that?”

Potter doesn’t say anything for a few moments, and Draco can feel himself beginning regret what he just confessed to Potter.

“It doesn’t make much sense, I know it’s pretty ridiculous,” Draco backtracks.

“No, I think . . .” Potter says, pulling Draco’s eyes to his, “I think it’s brilliant.”

Potter’s eyes are so sincere that it hurts. Draco feels something odd pulling at his heart and he lets himself smile at Potter in response.

Potter smiles back, and Draco feels some weight lift from his shoulders, something he didn’t even realize was there. Draco hasn’t smiled easily like that in so long, and God, it feels great. And for Potter of all people to have pulled it out of him, it’s mental, isn’t it?

“I’ve never told anyone that,” Draco admits, feeling a little floaty.

“Well, thanks for telling me,” Potter replies, looking back down at his file. “I didn’t know you were creative like that.”

“Well, we weren’t really mates, were we?” Draco points out.

“No,” Potter looks at Draco thoughtfully. “You know, I really don’t know anything about you,” he says, eyes widening at the realization.

“No,” Draco agrees, surprised, “and I don’t know much about you, do I?” 

The two men stare at each other as if seeing the other for the first time. It’s an odd feeling. Potter breaks the reverie.

“Do you ever write them down?”

“What?” Draco asks. 

“Do you write your stories down?” Potter repeats, leaning both elbows on the table.

Write down his stories . . . he never thought of such a thing.

“Well, no. I don’t see why I’d have to,” Draco shakes his head.

“When I do my job, every idea I come up with I write down. I don’t know why, but when I write down these floating ideas, sometimes I see connections between them, or by seeing it on paper I can expand an idea easily, coming up with more possible leads, motives, you name it,” Potter looks excited, talking about his work. It’s a dangerous look on him. “I bet if you write some stories down, you’d be surprised at what more you’d come up with for your characters.”

“Characters?” Draco snorts.

“Well, you’re creating storybook characters, aren’t you?” Potter says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Draco remains silent, looking back towards Garrett. He’s finally ordered something and is looking into his drink longingly. _Characters._ He never thought of it like that before. By giving every face a name and individual, sometimes crazy, story, Draco has created countless personas based on the people he’s seen. Most of the ideas he comes up with are pretty basic, but sometimes he finds a gem of a person to create around. He’s come up with some pretty good material in the past, but has never thought to expand upon it.

He hates to think about it, but maybe Potter’s right. And it isn’t such a bad idea.

It gives Draco something _more_ to do, anyhow.

The silence between them stretches on. Draco continues to ponder what Potter said until his thoughts are interrupted.

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” Potter confesses, nearly a whisper. Draco looks back at Potter, pushing a loose strand of hair back for a clearer view.

“Don’t be,” he states, trying to brush it off.

“No, what you said before about me holding back. It freaked me out because you were right. No one has said anything to me about it, but I can feel myself doing it. And you put words to it. I think Ron and Hermione feel it, but are too afraid to bring it up with me. They’ve . . .” Potter lets out a begrudged sigh and leans forward on the table again. “They’ve been treating me different. Nothing too extreme, but I can feel them walk on eggshells around me. I can’t stand it.”

“But you don’t treat me like that. They think I’m fragile or something, and everyone else thinks I’m special, but you treat me like you used to. Well,” Potter smirks, “not exactly like you used to, because you’re different, too. But you don’t think of me any different.”

“What I’m trying to say is, when you saw through me like that, putting words to what I was when no one else would, I was kind of angry. So I didn’t want to hold back for once, which is why I wanted to get to you yesterday, I guess,” Potter sighs and runs both hands through his hair.

“I know it’s stupid, but you used to be so easy to get to. To rile up, make angry, something,” Potter looks back at Draco, a soft expression crossing his eyes. “You just seem so, compared to before, just so . . .” Potter trails off. Draco can feel what he wants to say.

“You can say it, Potter,” Draco says. Potter looks him square in the eye.

“So _empty_.”

Draco swallows. Potter’s done it again. He feels the anger swell, then dissipate into nothing. Draco knows he’s been empty, and he hates it. He just can’t fix it. He tries to hide it by drawing more curtains, but Potter can see through them, tear them down. He _knows_.

“I know,” Draco replies, eyes downcast. Potter doesn’t say anything, and Draco sighs, rather loudly.

“Then you finally yelled at me yesterday. It took some work, but I could see you were still in there somewhere, Draco Malfoy.”

Draco looks up at Potter to see him smiling, eyes soft.

“I really tried not to let you get to me, but you’re you. You’ve always been out of my mind, Potter. Always able to get to me.”

“And you made me do it by saying I was holding back. I guess you’re the only one who can get to me, too. I haven’t been like that in ages.”

“Well, look at us go, then,” Draco raises his mug in a toast. Potter laughs. It’s just a little laugh, but Draco feels another repressed emotion rise up at the sound. He returns the toast. Draco can’t stop the small smile that forms.

“Do you think . . .” he continues before he can stop himself, thinking back on what they discussed earlier. What is he thinking?

When Draco doesn’t continue, Potter questions. “What?”

“Well, do you think we could’ve been friends back at Hogwarts?” Draco finishes. Potter tilts his head in thought. “Of course, if I hadn’t been such a prick right from the get go.”

“Hard to say,” Potter plays with his straw. “Does it really matter now, anyways? We can’t change what’s happened.”

“I suppose not,” Draco replies with a hint of disappointment.

“But we’re kind of friends now, aren’t we?” Potter continues after a minute of silence. Draco’s eyes snap back to Potter’s. They look hesitant, hopeful, and scared all at once. Draco prefers those emotions to the once that flashed across his eyes a couple of weeks ago.

“Are we?” Draco ponders.

“I don’t know exactly what else to call this,” Potter replies, mouth quirking to the side. Maybe that gesture isn’t frustration, as Draco once believed. Maybe it’s nervousness.

“This is mental, Potter,” Draco says, suddenly unsure of what to say or do. With their history, with what Draco has done, with how messed up everything is, this could not happen.

“Maybe, but I thought we’ve established we’re already pretty mental anyways,” Potter shrugs, mouth upturning into a slight smile. It immediately goes to his eyes.

“I used to hate you,” Draco says, so unsure. He wants this. He wants to be friends with Harry Potter, has since he was eleven. He doesn’t understand why he’s saying these things. He just can’t quite wrap his mind around the situation.

“No, you didn’t,” Potter replies, eyes tired and longing. Draco can’t look away.

He is still trying to logic this out, but it isn’t logical, is it? He’s a Death Eater and helped the Dark Lord. The Dark Lord who was trying to kill Potter. They should hate each other, it doesn’t make sense. And yet, Potter has changed from the war, and Draco has, too. Maybe they changed just so, so that they could exist in the same space and get along without killing each other. It _is_ mental. And Draco thinks of Potter, all bomber jackets and messy hair and iced Americanos, pushing Draco until he tears through the curtains and actually _feels_ something. Something important. And even back in school, Draco never hated Potter.

He was just jealous. He just wanted to be his friend.

“No, I didn’t,” Draco agrees.

“Well then, maybe we should just . . .” Potter regards Draco with an unreadable look, “start over.”

Start over. If only Potter knew.

Suddenly, Potter’s hand is extended towards Draco over the table. Draco’s breath hitches in his throat at the sight. He’s immediately back on a train, staring at a scrawny eleven year old boy with messy hair and crooked glasses.

Draco looks at Potter’s face. It’s the same boy, but not really. Not anymore.

Draco swallows back the past, taking Potter’s hand. 

“Hi, I’m Harry Potter,” Harry says, grinning like a lunatic at the scene.

“Draco Malfoy, nice to meet you,” he replies.

They drop their hands. Draco can’t suppress the smile that rises.

They spend the next twenty or so minutes in companionable silence, broken sporadically by Draco’s comments on customers. Harry continues to work, pausing to chime in on Draco’s ideas. Draco finds the second opinion surprisingly welcome. He enjoys sharing his thoughts.

Draco glances at Harry every so often to find him engrossed in the files. Draco wonders about the case he’s working on. Shortly after, Harry claims he has to get off of his break and back to work.

“You mean you’re not working right now?” Draco replies, incredulous.

“Believe it or not, no,” Harry runs a hand through his hair. “These cases come with a ridiculous amount of paperwork, you wouldn’t believe it. I have to work on it whenever possible to prevent it from piling up on my desk.”

“Huh,” Draco hums. He never imagined Auror Potter would have to do something as mundane as _paperwork._

“The field work makes it worth it, though. But,” Potter shrugs, eyes sparkling, “good company makes the grudge work more bearable.”

With that, he walks away, leaving Draco a little flustered. He wishes Harry wouldn’t do that.

Draco finishes his latte quickly and collects his tea.

“Draco, what on _earth_ —” Maggie starts as soon as she sees him.

“I don’t even know,” he says, smiling easily. At the action, Maggie gets a look of utter confusion on her face. “What?”

“Just . . . you’re smiling.” Maggie replies in a daze. Elle is watching him, too, not realizing the water she’s pouring is landing next to the cup instead of in it. She realizes when Draco looks at her, and scrambles to clean it up.

“Yeah,” Draco says, paying for the tea.

“Who are you and what have you done with Draco?” Elle asks in mock fear as he hands him the hot paper cup.

“It’s been a weird couple of days, all right? Leave me alone,” he snaps, only half mocking.

“There it is,” Elle laughs. Maggie is still looking at him suspiciously.

Draco thanks them and leaves, stepping out into sunshine, feeling lighter than ever.

 

*******

 

Draco shuts the door of his building behind him. The click reverberates through the dark, empty space, and all that is left is quiet. Draco walks towards the flights of stairs and stops before the first one, each footstep echoing out in the space.

The silence that’s left is suffocating. Draco used to find some comfort in this quiet after walking through loud and overwhelming London, but not today. Today it just feels . . . sad.

Not to mention it’s dark. Why can’t someone change that bloody light?

Draco walks back towards the door, towards the mirror. He squints into it, looking past the grime. Of course, he is reflected back. Hair shining bright, even in the dark, cascading down his back. He run a hand through it to push it away from his face. His eyes shone silver, reflected back at him. He tugs the corner of his mouth up in a smirk, liking the reflection. He sighs sadly.

Dirty mirror, quiet, empty building, dark hallway.

Draco pounds up the stairs, trying to make as much noise as possible. He unlocks the door, sound hitting the ears twice. He finds the echo bothersome. It reminds Draco that nothing is here.

He pushes open the door to his flat. It’s empty. White walls, plain floorboards. He only has his table, sofa, bed, clothes, and books. He couldn’t even be bothered with a proper bookshelf. He stares at the stack that rests in the corner of his living room.

The light in here isn’t strong. He hasn’t quite noticed before. And it’s so quiet, even with the window open. The voices don’t reach his floor very well.

Draco falls into the sofa, good mood from earlier deflating as he listens to the loud silence.

How could he not have noticed before? It’s so empty here.

Draco could leave and no one would notice. The furniture came with the flat. He could leave all of those books and empty the wine, take his clothes.

Draco stands and opens the fridge to be met with takeaway leftovers that he’ll eat tonight.

He could leave the flat, and it would barely change. Draco barely lives here.

How hasn’t he realized before?

He hates this place.

 

*******

 

Draco is walking back to the coffee shop, glancing at passersby. The sky is mostly overcast, but the sun finds its way through every once in a while, warming his back. It’s chilly, but Draco gets away with only his beanie and no coat. He does have to walk a little faster to generate some more warmth, however, when the sun isn’t shining.

Draco pauses mid step when a shop he never noticed before—probably too busy gazing forward—catches his eye. He walks, curious, to the front window and studies the display. A few very fancy looking journals are on pedestals with nice pens to accompany. Draco reads the sign above the door that confirms it is a stationary shop.

Draco remembers what Harry had mentioned about writing his stories, his _characters_ , down. It really wasn’t a bad idea. Draco can’t imagine what could really come out of it, but it is definitely more than letting the ideas come and go, never to be recorded or remembered with importance again. While Draco gives the passersby in his life a name and story, he realizes that he never really thinks of them again. They’re only fleeting thoughts.

Well, what’s the point in that? None of the stories are remembered, none have a lasting impact.

Draco makes up his mind with a faint smile and pushes the door open.

When Draco drops his new notebook and pen in front of Harry later that day, he’s met with a curious glance and smile.

“Did you actually listen to what I said?”

“Why do you sound so shocked, Potter?” Draco mocks offense, “It wasn’t a bad idea.”

“So,” Harry looks triumphantly smug, “it was a good idea.”

“Don’t give yourself so much credit. It just wasn’t bad.”

“So it was good!” Harry replies, sitting back with that cheeky smirk.

“Whatever you say, scarhead.”

The afternoon wears on. Harry works and chats idly, passing the time with Draco. Draco returns some comments while making some different ones in his notebook. About the girl across the balcony. About the old man staring out the window. About the noisy group downstairs.

They all start with lists of names that Draco comes up with on the spot. He crosses some out and stars some, circling the one he decides on. After the name comes a short description of the person. What they look like, what they’re doing, their vibe, their expression, their attitude. Then, Draco writes a story.

The group’s is only a few paragraphs, one for every member. The girl’s a page. The old man receives two. Draco writes his ideas and thoughts as they come, crossing out instead of erasing what he decides against in the end. The feeling of a pen scratching paper is surprisingly calming. Draco can feel his fleeting ideas being channelled through the ink, grounded onto the page. Some stories are just quick observations, but Draco finds it harder to leave others. He finds he wants to flesh some out further. The desire is foreign, as Draco never once thought of doing so before he put pen to paper.

Maybe this is a good idea. Not that’d he’d tell Harry.

Draco stays long after Harry bids him farewell, writing. He is surprised when Maggie taps him on the shoulder to let him know the shop is closing.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize the time,” Draco apologizes, scrambling to leave.

“Obviously,” Maggie chuckles, giving him an unreadable look. “Good night, Draco.”

Draco returns to the flat before dark, not like it matters. It’s always dark in this hallway. Draco slowly walks up the flights to his flat, stomach twisting as the lock does. The flat is quiet and empty as ever, and the feeling to leave is even stronger.

An owl hoots outside of his window as he’s finishing a glass of wine. Draco declines the dinner invitation once more, suddenly feeling guilty as the owl flies away. That’s a new emotion.

Draco slams the window shut and sighs. He suddenly feels like he could cry. The light is so dim, the empty hall so quiet. He keeps avoiding his own mother, who he used to be so close with. Again, Draco feels like he’s suffocating.

The feeling is odd. Draco’s days have been better than ever, full of some odd purpose and emotion through his meetings with Harry. Perhaps that’s why returning to this emotionless flat every evening is becoming harder, and Draco can’t hold it back any longer.

 

*******

 

“I think I’m going to move flat,” Draco announces one afternoon. The coffee shop isn’t very busy this time of day. Afifa and Elle chat behind the bar, all cleaning done. The sun is gone today, replaced with a grey sky and brisk breeze. 

Harry looks up from his file, rubbing his eyes. “What?”

Draco glances at him, sidelong, then back out of the window. A blackbird lands on the windowsill and cleans its feathers.

“I think I’m going to move flat,” Draco repeats.

“Oh,” Potter says, dropping his hand. “Where do you even live?”

“Just off of Leicester Square,” Draco answers. Potter makes an offended noise. Draco glances back.

“That’s so expensive,” he observes.

“I know,” Draco replies. “I don’t think it’s worth it anymore.”

“What d’you mean? That’s, like, a prime location.”

“I just never realized how depressing my flat is until last week. It’s so quiet. I don’t like it anymore,” Draco replies, scowling.

“I thought you liked quiet?”

“Me too” Draco sighs, “but I can barely stand going back there anymore, isn’t that mental?”

“Oh,” Harry says, regarding Draco, “where are you thinking about going?”

“Dunno,” Draco replies, sipping at his latte. “In the meantime, I guess I’m stuck hating my home,” he laughs, albeit somewhat bitterly.

Harry is silent for a long time. Draco assumes the conversation is over. They do that a lot. One will join the other, sometimes with a greeting. Often no words are spoken. After a while, a comment will be made or a question asked. The conversations are sometimes short and sporadic, other times they’re long and consist of many stretching pauses. Draco finds it nice. Harry doesn’t expect Draco to talk if Draco doesn’t want to, and the company is good.

“My house is pretty empty,” Harry says after a while. Draco looks back at Harry, who opens his mouth and closes it before twisting his face into an odd expression. Draco hums in amusement.

“Is that so? That’s another thing we have in common, then.”

Harry just rolls his eyes. “I mean, it’s pretty big for just me. If you—” Harry suddenly pauses and looks away from Draco, taking a breath before continuing, “If you really hate living in your own flat _that_ much, you can come to mine, if you want.”

When Draco only stares at him in response, Harry adds, “I mean, until you find a better flat. You don’t have to or anything.”

“I know I don’t have to, Potter,” Draco says, still a little shocked. Perhaps a bit too harshly. He can’t believe Harry just offered his home up to him. As if this relationship, or whatever you call it, wasn’t odd enough. “That’s awfully generous of you.”

“I mean, it’s a big house,” Harry elaborates, regaining some confidence.

“Still, it’s not like my flat burnt to the ground. There’s nothing wrong with it,” Draco says.

God, why does he keep doing this? He would actually like to get out of the flat, and here’s his chance. Why does he keep saying things that indicate otherwise? What is _wrong_ with him? Draco doesn’t understand himself sometimes.

“I know, but if you hate going home then there is definitely something wrong,” Harry laughs, eyes glowing. 

Draco swallows and looks away. “I mean, you’re not wrong.”

“So, I’m right?” Harry looks hopeful again.

“Sure,” Draco rolls his eyes sarcastically.

“Then, is that a yes?” Harry asks, eyes wavering from their expression.

Draco takes a breath and thinks of his dark, empty, depressing flat waiting for his return. To think, he wouldn’t have to go back there if he just accepted Potter’s offer.

“It’s a yes,” Draco confirms, smirking back.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a chill chapter. I was half asleep when I wrote most of this so let's hope it makes sense.

Harry returns to work and Draco returns to his flat for the last time. It doesn’t take long for him to gather up his clothes and remaining bottle of wine, still unopened. Does Harry like wine? It could be a nice thank-you gift. It wasn’t cheap, that’s for sure.

Draco shrinks it along with his clothes and shoves the bundle in his pocket. He collects a couple of choice books, along with his notebook, and abandons the rest in the corner.

Draco looks around his empty flat. He decides to not tell the building manager yet that he is leaving, just in case. Draco finds, not for the first time, that he has no idea what he’s doing. This time, he’s not worried.

Draco sits in the leather sofa, gazing out the window, feeling odd instead. Potter said he’d come around once he’s done with work. Draco simply has to wait.

A few minutes later, he hears an owl outside of his window. Of course, his mother’s owls. He opens the dinner invite and finds a pen to decline and inform her that he is moving flat. He realizes he has no idea what Potter’s address is. He decides to tell her that he’ll have the address to her once everything is sorted, trying to be as vague as possible about the fact that he’s moving in with Harry bloody Potter.

Draco takes a deep breath and rubs his eyes. _Mental._

Draco settles back into the sofa and continues his current book, skipping the wine for now. He’d rather be completely sober for Harry. After what feels like an age, his buzzer rings, filling the silence momentarily.

Draco scrambles from the sofa and buzzes Harry in. He opens his door and waits, Harry’s footsteps growing in volume and echo as they approach Draco’s door.

Suddenly, Harry is there, all green eyes and bomber jacket, smiling at Draco. Draco invites Harry in, feeling suddenly self-conscious about the space the moment he crosses the threshold.

“This is a nice place, Malfoy,” Harry remarks politely. The sight of Harry Potter in his living room is far too odd for Draco, and he find it hard to respond. “It’s really you.”

That shakes Draco out of it. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Harry’s eyes shift from the window back to Draco. “I mean, it’s obvious you’d live here.”

“But this place is so,” Draco runs a nervous hand through his hair, “ _empty._ You can barely tell anyone lives here.”

Harry gives Draco a pointed look.

“Exactly,” he says. Draco feels the air rush out of him. Right.

He looks away.

“Have everything?” Harry asks, casually changing the topic.

Draco pats his pocket. “Yeah, ready to go.”

“Great,” Harry replies. He holds an arm out for Draco. Draco looks at it, confused. “Er, side along?” Harry says.

“Oh, right.” Draco reaches for Harry, mentally kicking himself and curling his fingers tightly around Harry’s forearm. His first thought is that Harry gives off a ridiculous amount of heat for only one person.

He feels the familiar knot pull at his naval, the telltale sign of apparition. The blood rushes through his ears and he shuts his eyes tightly. Suddenly, his feet land with a thud and the knot in his stomach relaxes.

His grip on Harry’s arm loosens and he opens his eyes, gasping at the sight before him.

“You live _here?_ ” Draco can’t believe his eyes. The heavy front door of the Black ancestral home stands before him. He reaches forward and runs the back of his finger down the cold wood. 

“You’ve been here before?” Harry asks, surprised.

“Yes,” Draco says. “My Great Aunt Walburga lived here. We visited her a lot, but she died when I was five and I haven’t been back since.”

Draco turns to Potter with a bewildered expression. “How come you live here?”

Potter looks alarmed. “Sirius left it to me when he died. He was the rightful heir after your aunt, you know.”

Draco just stares at Harry, shrugging when he can’t come up with anything to say to that. He’s simply too shocked. But it figues, doesn’t it?

“I bet you won’t recognize the inside. Ron, Hermione, and I completely flipped it when I decided to move in. It was too depressing otherwise, too many memories . . .” Potter trails off as he pushes open the door, stepping in.

Draco follows, feeling like he’s watching himself perform the action. This is too surreal.

He steps into a brightly lit hallway, and it is truly _nothing_ like Draco remembers.

“Oh,” he hears himself exclaim.

The floorboards, once creaky and worn, are now a beautiful polished hardwood—beech, by the looks of it. The walls look to be freshly painted, no longer dank and dark, now bright and warm. The wall in the hallway is cream, simple yet cheerful. The chandelier at the end of the hall is still there, glowing warmly on the walls. Already, Draco can hardly recognize the place.

When he was a child, he always thought the house to be creepy. Today, he would use the word cozy.

“Yeah, it took ages,” Harry says. Draco slips his shoes off, following what Harry does. He notices that old troll leg umbrella stand is still there, however. He can’t imagine why Harry would keep such a thing.

Before they make it any further, Draco hears the high-pitched barking of a small dog followed by nails frantically clicking on the hardwood floor. From the drawing room bursts out a little ball of fluff, barking excitedly. The black Pomeranian skids to a halt before Harry. The dog’s tail is wagging so violently her whole rear goes with it and she’s bouncing on her paws.

“Hey, Fluffy,” Harry crouches down. The dog, Fluffy, leaps into his arms happily.

Draco’s heart melts.

“You named your dog ‘Fluffy’?” He snorts, trying to keep his emotions under control.

“What else could I name her?” He retorts, smiling as if it’s an inside joke.

Suddenly Fluffy jumps out of Harry’s arms, now aware of the stranger in her home. She approaches Draco slowly, ears flat against her head, tail still wagging furiously. She sits at Draco’s feet, sniffing his toes. She’s barely the size of a quaffle.

“More of a cat person?” Harry sniffs. Draco does love cats. The thing is, he also loves dogs. 

Ignoring Harry, Draco kneels in front of Fluffy. The fuzzball’s ears shoot straight up in approval as she jumps into Draco, surprisingly hefty for an animal her size. He falls backwards on his bum, letting Fluffy lick his face over and over. He lets out a surprised yelp, but can't suppress the grin that follows. Draco gently nudges her back, scratching behind her ears. She sits in his lap, panting joyfully.

Draco looks up at Harry, who’s staring, face one of shock.

“You can like dogs _and_ cats, equally, Potter,” Draco replies simply, enjoying how Harry literally shakes his head out of it.

“Right,” he mutters, turning away quickly. Draco thinks he sees a blush begin to creep up Harry’s neck, but he can’t quite tell. 

Harry starts up the staircase at the end of the hall. Draco stands, much to Fluffy’s dismay, and follows. Fluffy follows them to the base of the stairs, then retreats back into the drawing room.

Draco starts up the flight, not at all missing the elf heads and other such decor. Picture frames hang in their absence, showing countless photos of Harry’s friends, mainly the trio. A few have pictures of a small child with brilliant turquoise hair. A set of curtains near the bottom is closed and tied tightly, hiding what must be that offensive portrait of his great aunt.

Harry only goes up one flight. “The bedroom closest the stairs is mine. The other one down the hall is empty. There are more upstairs, but we haven’t redone them so it’s still, you know, creepy up there,” he explains.

Harry walks down the hall and opens the second and farthest door on the right. “Make yourself at home. My room has an en suite, so the bathroom on this floor is also all yours,” Harry turns and looks at Draco as though he can’t believe Draco is there. Draco can’t quite believe it either, if he’s being honest.

“Thanks, Potter, this _is_ really nice of you, you know,” Draco responds with a slight smirk.

“Well, you can see how big the place is for one only person,” Harry replies. “The company should be nice so long as you behave yourself. Tea?” He asks.

Draco shakes his head in amusement. “Please.”

Potter smiles and pounds down the stairs, leaving Draco alone.

Draco walks slowly towards his door, feeling floaty. He expects to feel as if he doesn’t belong here. This _is_ Harry Potter’s house, after all. Yet, no such feelings come. Instead he just feels . . . welcome. He runs his hand down the smooth wood of the door, a small smile tracing his lips. Draco grasps the door knob, turning it. Draco loves the lack of echo. This space is lived in, full. Bright.

Draco’s new room is much larger than the room at his flat. The second floor utilizes mahogany hardwood instead of beech. One wall of his room is exposed brick and the rest is painted a complimentary brown color. The bed is made with a white comforter and sheets, and he discovers it is also exponentially more comfortable than his when he sits on it experimentally. His bedside table is Gryffindor red. Of course.

The closet is also much larger. Draco’s clothes barely take up half of the room. After leaving his toiletries in the bathroom and sticking the extra wine bottle and his books in a drawer, he joins Harry downstairs in the kitchen.

The kitchen is as warm as the entranceway. Spacious and inviting. A window looks out into the back garden, deep brown curtains pulled open. Draco gazes out of it, observing the late afternoon outside. The garden could use a trim. Harry is waiting beside a tea kettle that has a tiny fire under it, Fluffy prancing around his legs. Draco’s eyebrows knit together at the kettle.

“Are you using electricity?” He asks. This house certainly didn’t have muggle electricity when it’s previous residents lived here.

“Oh, yeah,” Harry answers. “I prefer it to magic when it comes to cooking and everything in the kitchen.”

Draco approaches the gas stove, observing the curiosity. He rarely, if ever, used the stovetop in his flat. It was simple enough to figure out when he experimented, but was electric instead of gas. 

“Interesting.”

“I installed it the Christmas before last and let Arthur Weasley help. It was his Christmas present. He finds muggle inventions fascinating,” Harry laughs.

Draco’s mouth quirks upwards at the mental image. “And how did that go?”

“Nearly electrocuted himself twice and we started a fire. He said it was his favourite Christmas ever,” Harry chuckles at the memory.

Draco smiles at Harry in response. Harry turns and tugs opens a cupboard. He digs around, emerging with two mugs, one painted with a pattern of green ivy, the other patterned with lillies. He pulls open a second cabinet and digs around in the far back, pulling out a jar of teabags. He pops open the lid and places a bag in each mug. “I don’t do loose leaf, too much of a hassle for a cup of tea. Hope that’s all right.”

Draco opens his mouth in surprise as the strong scent of mint hits him. Harry knew that was his favorite, and Draco’s oddly touched.

“Perfectly fine,” Draco replies as the kettle starts to whistle. Harry pours the steaming water into the mugs, handing Draco the ivy one. Draco raises an eyebrow at the color choice. “Green, Potter?”

“Oh!” Potter laughs. “Didn’t even realize.”

Draco laughs in response. Actually _laughs_. He hasn’t laughed in ages, and the action surprises him. He slaps a hand over his mouth at the realization. Harry gives him an amused look.

“Thanks Potter,” Draco hums, stifling the emotion.

Harry leads Draco to the drawing room, which, to Draco’s growing delight at the place, has been converted into a cozy living room. Harry waves his hand in front of the hearth and a fire roars to life, giving the space a welcoming glow and warmth. Draco observes the wandless magic, not at all surprised.

A television set sits against the wall adjacent to the fireplace. Pictures flash across it, but the sound is off. Living in the muggle world, Draco has come across the contraptions before, but has never used one. He watches the moving pictures with growing interest. Harry falls into a squashy sofa next to the fire, digging around in his bag. He pulls out a large stack of files, all of varying thickness and color.

“They really do have you working all day,” Draco muses, holding onto his warm mug tightly, peppermint clearing his head.

“Right?” Harry laughs, spreading the files across the coffee table between the sofa and television. Draco gingerly sets his ivy mug next to a particularly large file and sits gingerly on the edge of the sofa, not quite knowing what to do with himself.

Harry shoots him a sidelong glance. Draco suddenly stands up with an idea. He excuses himself and leaves to his room, digging around the items he just moved in. He pulls his notebook from the drawer and finds a pen. Earlier in the day he discovered an excellent backstory. Perhaps he could expand upon it.

Draco comes back down the stairs, enjoying how his light footsteps create no resounding echo for once. He finds Harry sitting back in the sofa staring hard at a document, like if he stared hard enough the answers of the universe would burst forth. Draco sits on the other side of the sofa, pulling his feet up under him. He rests the notebook on the arm of the couch, letting it fall open to the page he’s working on. He smiles when a nose nuzzles its way under his left arm. He pets a content Fluffy as he stares at the page.

This particular woman had deep red hair, long and pencil straight. It was pulled back high on her head into a slick and perfect ponytail. She wore sunglasses indoors despite the cloudy sky and wore a mostly black suit. She was impatient in line and only ordered a black Americano for takeaway. She left in a hurry, heels clicking out the shop.

Draco watched these actions and pegged her down as a spy. Iva. Her story is fascinating so far. Draco rereads what he has written, deciding it’s too dull, too dramatic. What could liven it up? 

Draco muses on his ideas for a little while, shortly realizing that he only comes up with dramatic ideas. Maybe he could try his hand at comedy, that should help with the depth of the story. It’s worth a shot, anyhow.

Draco jots down ideas outline-style as they come. The fire warms his side comfortably, his fingers trailing through Fluffy’s coat. His hair keeps slipping from his shoulders and into his face because of his position. Carefully setting his pen in his lap, Draco digs around his pocket for a hair tie. He pulls his own hair swiftly back into a ponytail, Fluffy squirming by his side at the absence of attention. For the briefest moment, Draco thinks he catches Harry staring at him, almost as intently as how he was staring at the files. But, Draco could have imagined it as he’s preoccupied by his unwieldy hair.

The mugs are nearly drained and Draco is deep in thought when a movement distracts him. Harry shifts from where he’s sitting, dropping a stack of parchment on the couch and rubbing at his eyes under his glasses. Draco watches the movement despite himself. Harry takes off his glasses and runs his hand through his hair. His eyes slide to Draco’s.

Draco’s breath catches in his throat. Harry’s eyes are an unreal shade of green. Were they always that shocking, hiding behind the barrier of his glasses? Draco blinks.

Harry replaces his glasses and Draco realizes he’s the one staring now, wondering what on earth just happened.

“What are you writing?” Harry asks, either not noticing Draco’s gaping or choosing to ignore it, voice gruff.

“Oh, it’s just a little something . . . remember the ‘spy’ we saw this morning?” Draco replies, looking everywhere but at Harry’s eyes.

“Oh yeah,” Harry laughs lightly. “Have a story for her?”

“Well, I wouldn’t call it a story,” Draco mutters, flipping back through his notes. God, when did he write all of this? He’s pages into this character already.

“Can I see?” Harry scoots closer. Draco hands over his notebook, feeling like he’s handing over his soul. It’s only some silly comedic scribblings about an overworked spy, but he put his heart into it. He feels oddly self-conscious as Harry’s eyes scan the page, silent. He can hear the fire crackle between Fluffy’s light snores.

“Malfoy . . .” Harry begins, flipping through pages. Harry pauses at a line and laughs. Draco hopes it’s good laughter.

“What, Potter?” He nearly snaps as the seconds ticks by when Harry doesn’t continue.

“This is fantastic,” Harry praises. 

“Yeah?” Draco regards Harry, trying to figure out if he means it. Harry looks at him with those green eyes, sincere as ever. Draco suddenly feels foolish, thinking Harry would make fun of it. He senses that Harry knows how important this moment is to Draco. Draco can’t quite peg the moment when little things like this became important to him, either. He hasn’t felt an emotion like this since he last studied away late into the night at Hogwarts, hidden behind his bed curtains.

“Funny, too,” Harry gives him a lopsided smile, tilting his head slightly. “I didn’t know you could be write like that.”

“Well, me neither,” Draco replies, staring at the next blank page in his notebook. He admits to himself that his attempted humour in his notes is rather cliche, but that was the point of it, really. Draco loves a good cliche. Of course Harry would be amused by that type of humour as well. They’re ridiculous, just like Harry and just like Draco. He’s only written a few real paragraphs outside of his outline, an aborted attempt at a scene. It’s not much, but it’s something. It’s a start.

Draco peeks up from his notebook to see Harry staring at the files sprawled across the table, a slight expression of distress etched on his face. The few he’s gone through and marked up are stacked on the corner, but the majority remain untouched.

“Tell me about this case you’re working on,” Draco prompts, setting his notebook aside for now. He scoots closer to Potter, ever so slightly, disturbing Fluffy. She jumps over Draco’s lap and settles between him and the armrest, her eyes falling shut.

“Oh, it’s nothing interesting, really.” Harry waves Draco’s notion away, running his fingers through his mane of hair.

“And yet, I’m interested,” Draco says genuinely. “You listened to my story, I want to hear yours. Tell me.”

Harry grins despite himself, giving in, not holding back. “Well, there’s a suspected illegal potions trade set up a few streets away from the coffee shop. Right in the middle of muggle London!” Harry explains. “Our theory is that they figured they’d be more easily tracked in Diagon or Knockturn Alley. We say ‘suspected’ trade because we have no hard evidence. These guys cover their tracks incredibly well, which leads us to believe there’s something more here. Normally these kinds of cases are easy, cut and dry. We’ve been staking out the area and areas surrounding the suspected location, trying to find a way in, but the charm work they’ve used to make themselves undetectable is tricky . . .” Harry continues.

Draco is only half-listening, mostly enjoying the way Harry’s eyes start lighting up with passion as he goes through the case with Draco, recovering from the tired glaze he received from going through paperwork. Harry loves his gestures. Twice he’s nearly knocked Draco’s mug out of his hand, and he’s already spilt his own tea on the floor. Harry has to stop himself a few times with an “Oh wait, that’s classified.” It’s ridiculously endearing, and Draco amuses himself with the fact.

“That sounds awfully complicated just for some illegal traders,” Draco remarks once Potter is finished. “Do _you_ think there’s something more going on here?”

“Oh, definitely. We’ve busted loads of these kinds of crimes and none have been this tricky to find, let alone deal with. Some of their faulty potions have begun to creep up in family apothecaries in the area. The poor owners. It’s becoming a big problem,” Harry replies, staring at the paperwork with annoyance. “Which just means more paperwork for me.”

Draco hums at Harry, feeling a sense of serenity. The fire is warm, the tea is good, and it’s late in the evening. Fluffy has moved from the couch to Draco’s lap. He plays with her tail as she dozes off once more. He can feel Harry’s eyes on him.

“What, Potter?”

“Just odd, you know?” He replies simply. Draco glances at him. The fire is dancing in his green eyes. The effect is mesmerizing.

“Yeah,” Draco whispers. Draco remembers how he thought he should feel earlier. Like he does not belong here. Yet, listening to Fluffy’s breaths and the fire crackle, sitting beside Harry sipping peppermint tea, Draco only senses a feeling of complete welcome, as he did in the hallway earlier. Complete acceptance. Earlier this afternoon, he kept thinking how odd the situation was, but that was only until he arrived. Now, it doesn’t feel odd at all. “But it doesn’t have to be,” Draco concludes.

“What d’you mean?” Harry’s eyebrows knit together. “I invited Draco Malfoy to live in my house and I don’t regret it. That’s pretty weird.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “I mean, it’s only weird or odd or whatever if we make it that way. We’re starting over, yeah? It doesn’t matter what we thought of each other before,” Draco full on looks at Harry now. “Friends live with each other all the time. It’s not weird.”

Draco’s stomach flutters when he calls Harry his friend, and Harry’s eyes brighten at the term being used so openly. “I don’t suppose you’re wrong about that,” Harry smirks.

“So I’m right?” Draco mimics.

“Maybe,” Harry hums. “Just said you weren’t wrong.”

The content feeling Draco has lasts for the remainder of the night. He goes to bed when Harry does, when the fire is long burnt out and the mugs have sat empty and cold for a while. Fluffy perks up when they stand. Harry scoops her in his arms and carries her upstairs with him. Her head peaks over at Draco above his shoulder. Once again, Draco tries not to find it too endearing.

He peeks in Harry’s room as he drops her on the bed. Fluffy jumps on it excitedly and Harry laughs. From what Draco can see, Harry’s room is only a little bigger than Draco’s but otherwise identical, only with red walls and curtains. It’s basically a small Gryffindor common room.

“Night, Malfoy,” Harry says as he closes the door.

“Night, Potter,” he replies.

The door clicks shut and Draco is left standing next to Harry’s door in the hallway. He can hear him cooing Fluffy on the other side. The space is lit warmly by a lamp at the end of the hall and the floors creak slightly with the house’s age as Draco goes to brush his teeth. In the bathroom, Draco looks at the mirror idly. There are no smudges or grime on its surface. He’s reflected clearly back. A few strands have escaped from the hair tie and his eyes are dark with tiredness from the late hour. Draco smiles, watching them light up with the motion. He shakes his head at himself and releases an easy sort of sigh.

Draco flicks off the light and enters his room, stripping off his trousers and letting his hair down. He dims the light there and opens the curtains before he crawls under the heavy comforter. Draco looks up into the night sky, wondering why on earth he feels this happy, and if he really deserves it. Draco remains that way until he can’t keep his eyes open any longer, and sleep gently takes him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Your feedback means a lot to me & is always appreciated :) Next chapter will be out within the next few days!


	5. Chapter 5

Draco wakes up slowly, fading in and out of consciousness. He steadily becomes aware of the sunlight streaming in through the window. His eyes flutter open to be met with the blinding brightness. With a disgruntled noise, he pulls the comforter above his head, pulling his long hair with it. He gasps in pain as it tugs, which wakes him up quickly.

Draco sits up, remembering that he is no longer in his dark little flat. Instead, he is in Harry Potter’s house, which also happens to be the Black family home. But it isn’t odd, because it’s exactly where Draco wants to be.

Draco falls back into the mattress, sighing contentedly. He counts his breaths, something he hasn’t done in a while.

After many minutes Draco slides out of bed. He wants to be colorful today. He hasn’t slept that well in ages. He supposes it’s a mixture of the calm that pours from Harry’s house and the fact that the bed is really quite comfortable. Today is a pink day, Draco decides, pulling out a baby pink jumper, slightly oversized, from his collection.

Draco dresses in the jumper and black jeans. He pushes open the window with only a little difficulty to be met with a chill despite the sunlight. Draco thrives in this weather.

He digs around the comforter in search for his hair tie. When he finally finds it wedged between the mattress and headboard, he pulls his hair back into a high bun, tucking the loose strands in haphazardly.

Draco steps out into the hall to be met with the smell of breakfast. The delectable aroma stops him. Surely, Harry hasn’t made breakfast?

After using the loo, Draco floats down the stairs, the scent growing stronger as he nears the kitchen. Halfway down the flight on the small landing, Draco pauses again. He hears Harry’s voice rise and fall in volume and cadence. Is he singing?

Draco descends the rest of the stairs. Yes, Harry is definitely singing. Draco stops before the kitchen to listen, worried Harry will quiet if he enters.

The tune is familiar, _very_ familiar, but Draco can’t place it. It’s upbeat. What surprises Draco the most is that Harry’s voice isn’t terrible. It’s not take your breath away amazing, but he can carry a tune well. He’s skipping lyrics, replacing them with ‘na na’s and ‘la la’s. Draco smiles before entering the kitchen.

“Good morning,” he says. Harry jumps about a foot in the air and turns hastily around. A bit of batter flies from a spoon and lands on the floor near Draco. Fluffy scrambles to lick it up, then waits at Draco’s feet expectantly. Draco smirks at Harry before he leans down to pat Fluffy. Satisfied, she scurries back to Harry. He’s much more interesting in her eyes; he has the food.

Harry’s face goes beet red, but other than that he gives no indication that he’d just been caught mid performance.

“Sleep well?” He asks instead.

“Rather,” Draco replies. He slept beautifully. “Is this breakfast?”

“Well it’s not dinner.”

Harry glances at Draco with the slightest smile.

“You’re outdoing yourself again, Potter,” Draco smirks.

“D’you want coffee or tea?”

“Let me get it, you’re already doing enough.”

“Oh, I cook breakfast every morning,” Harry says casually. Draco gives him an incredulous look.

“You cook like this _every_ morning?”

“Yeah. I like cooking, find that it sets my day right, you know?” Harry says as if it’s obvious.

Draco doesn’t quite know what to make of that. Doing something in the morning for yourself to set the day right.

“I didn’t always like cooking,” Harry continues when Draco just continues staring. His face holds something, and Draco can’t quite place it. Something troubling. It doesn’t look good on him.

Draco looks around the kitchen for something to make coffee, his eyes landing on a muggle contraption.

“You use a drip coffee maker?” He asks.

“Yeah, what else would you use?” Harry replies, pouring batter into the heated pan, sitting atop that little flame.

“I use a French press.”

Harry snorts. “Of course you do.”

“What?” Draco snaps at Harry’s look. “Drip coffee doesn’t allow for the oils released from the beans to enrich the brew since the water passes through so quickly,” he explains. “In a French press, the grounds and the oils steep in the hot water during the brewing process, allowing for a richer flavor.”

Draco sniffs and looks at Harry, who’s giving him a bewildered look.

“What?” Draco snaps again.

“You know a lot about coffee,” Harry remarks.

“Of course I do, I spend all of my time in a coffee shop. I hear things. And I just like good coffee.”

Draco walks up to the drip brew and inspects it with disdain.

“Do you even know how to use that?” Harry asks smugly.

“Of course I don’t. Why would I learn to use a contraption that makes bad coffee?”

“It does not make bad coffee!” Harry drops his spatula on the counter with a clatter. He sounds annoyed, but he’s smiling. “Look, it’s easy.”

Draco stands back, bemused, as Harry shows him how to use the machine, explaining each part meticulously.

“Much easier than your French press bullshit,” Harry concludes, flipping a burnt pancake.

Draco watches the coffee drip into the large glass carafe beneath it. It definitely looks watery compared to the French press he makes in the morning, but he’s not about to complain.

Of course, he’d left his French press in the flat. It was something the previous tenants had left and he just took over. But, he would rather go anywhere than back there. So maybe watery coffee is okay.

By the time the coffee’s finished brewing, Harry’s made an exceptional stack of pancakes. He splits it on to two plates. Draco finds syrup and strawberries in the refrigerator, another odd muggle machine Harry’s brought into this home.

If only Aunt Walburga saw _this_.

The kitchen opens into the dining area, adding to the easy airiness of the place. Instead of the long table he remembers from his youth, there is a much smaller, cosier, square table. Draco and Harry eat their breakfast there. Draco despises how good the coffee actually is. Not nearly as good as his French press, but still.

“These pancakes are brilliant,” he comments idly. Harry’s eyes light up at the compliment.

“Thanks.” He smiles.

“I haven’t had pancakes in . . .” Draco tries to pull the memory from his mind, coming up with some Hogsmeade morning with Pansy and Blaise. They’d gone out of the castle for breakfast, trying to find some peace and quiet. It’s a pleasant memory. Near the beginning of winter, a roaring fire, Pansy’s harsh giggles and Blaise’s constant smugness, the crisp coolness and fuzzy scarves. “Well, since before.”

Harry’s eyes soften at Draco’s expression. They don’t speak after that, but it’s not an uncomfortable silence. It’s one of understanding and companionship. They don’t have to talk all the time. It’s okay not to talk.

Once they’re both finished and Fluffy has received far too many scraps, Harry levitates the plates to the sink.

“Let me guess, you like washing dishes the muggle way, too?” Draco raises an eyebrow.

“Oh, shut up,” Harry laughs, pushing Draco lightly on the shoulder. The feeling of Harry’s touch stays on Draco long after his hand is gone.

Harry gathers his bag and moves to the living room.

“I’m off for once today, not like it matters,” he mutters, staring down at the file-covered coffee table loathingly.

However, Draco’s not listening. Instead, he’s rooted to his spot in the entryway. There’s a large object resting in the corner of the living room covered in a quilt. Draco noticed it yesterday, but hadn’t given it a second thought, assuming it to be a table or some other old piece of furniture. But in the clarity of the morning, Draco realizes what lies beneath the quilt, and now it’s all he can think about.

He slowly walks towards it, not at all hearing Harry’s running commentary about his files.

Draco reaches out his hand, resting it on the quilt. It’s lovely, definitely made by Molly Weasley. There are nine squares total, each dedicated to one of the Weasley children, one for Harry, and the last has a Weasley ‘W’ stitched into it. It’s utterly ridiculous, utterly charming.

Draco grips the fabric and gently pulls it, revealing a beautiful Steinway grand piano hidden beneath. His breath catches in his throat as he runs a hand smoothly over the polished black surface.

He realizes Harry’s stopped chattering. Draco glances over to where Harry’s standing by the coffee table wearing a confused and curious expression. Draco’s wide eyed at his discovery. He knows he must look slightly mad.

“I used to play this piano,” he says, trying to explain. He looks back at the old thing, and a wave of memories overwhelms him. He must have been two or three when he sat in his Aunt Walburga’s lap while she lulled beautiful music from the instrument. She and his mum taught him how to play a part to _Heart and Soul_ that year. It was the first song he ever learned. They taught him many little melodies during those early years, which he would pound out ungracefully with his short fingers and small hands. Every visit he’d play the piano with them, often sitting between them as they played together. He enjoyed hitting keys at random while they played, spoiling their music on purpose. His mum’s soft giggles and Aunt Walburga’s boisterous laugh echoes in his ears.

He hasn’t seen this piano since Aunt Walburga died. He never thought . . .

Before he realizes what he’s doing, Draco’s sitting on the piano bench, dropping the quilt beside him. He gently lifts the creaky fallboard. It’s exactly like he remembers it.

Draco knows a lot of songs. What Harry sang this morning, Draco thinks he knows it. But, not right now. Right now it reminds him of another song he knows. Something a little gentler, something a little sadder.

Draco takes a shaky breath, and plays.

The feeling comes back instantly, the muscle memory still there even after all this time.

Draco’s fingers glide over the keys and he loses himself in it. Nothing else matters. There’s no Harry Potter, no Grimmauld Place, no owls from his mother, no empty flat, no coffee shop, no past, no war.

For minutes that feel like years, there’s only cold ivory under his fingers and music resonating in his soul.

Draco finishes the song, slowly stroking out the last notes. Then, there is silence in which the world is amplified in Draco’s mind. Draco realizes there’s a tear running down his cheek. Thank Merlin it’s the one facing away from Harry. He wipes it away quickly with his sleeve, still staring down at the keys.

“Blackbird,” Harry says quietly.

“Hm?” Draco responds, shaking himself out of it as he looks over at Harry. He’s standing next to the coffee table in the exact same spot he was four minutes ago. There’s something different in his eyes. It’s in the way he’s looking at Draco. They hold so much, those jade eyes.

“You were playing _Blackbird_ ,” Harry repeats. “That’s a Beatles song.”

“I know.” He knows it’s a Beatles song. He didn’t know he was playing it. It just happened. “It’s a sad song.”

“It’s a hopeful song,” Harry counters. His voice is odd, too.

“Guess it depends on your perspective.”

“I didn’t know you could play piano.” It’s calmer, very quiet for Harry.

“I forgot . . . I haven’t played in so long,” Draco looks down at his hands, resting on top of the keys.

“I didn’t know you knew who The Beatles were,” Harry observes again, but with amusement in his voice. 

“Of course I know who The Beatles are,” he scoffs. “I didn’t know you sung.” Draco tilts his head.

“I don’t really sing.” Harry laughs dismissively.

“But you do,” Draco replies in earnest, looking at Harry. “You did this morning.”

“I just liked the song.”

“It was a Beatles song,” Draco realizes, smiling despite himself. “That’s why I thought of this song.”

“ _Lady Madonna_ ,” Harry laughs.

“Oh!” At the name, Draco remembers. His fingers involuntarily find the keys for the first chord. He presses them down, filling the air with a happy sound. Harry gasps.

“You know it?” He asks excitedly. Draco laughs, and they share a similar expression, each knowing what’s about to happen. Draco turns back to the keyboard and begins to play. This song is much happier, and Draco’s loses himself in it in a completely different way. The floodgates are open, and joy pours out of him into his music.

It’s even better when Harry begins to sing. In the opening bars, Harry dances from the coffee table around the sofa, finding his way to the body of the piano. He watches Draco play as he leans on the piano’s body, and begins singing, a huge grin on his face. Draco feels a similar grin form on his.

Harry makes it through the first verse, still forgetting some lyrics and replacing them with gibberish, and Draco can’t help but join in for the shared line.

“See how they run!” They sing together, Harry continuing with the melody, a delighted look in those expressive eyes when Draco takes the higher harmony. Harry laughs and sings; Draco continues playing.

Draco’s music takes up room. Harry’s voice doesn’t hold back.

Together they finish the song. Draco hits the final chord, letting it echo beautifully. He and Harry look at each other, each grinning like madmen, then they burst out laughing. 

The morning lulls by gradually after that. Draco puts on a second pot of coffee as Harry muses over his work. He finds himself sitting at the piano bench again when he returns, his ivy mug warm in his hands. He can’t help but run his fingers gently over the ivory time and time again. He can’t believe this piano is still here. He can’t believe he still remembers how to play it.

There was a lovely upright piano in the Slytherin common room. Instead of studying with his housemates, he would lose himself in that piano nearly every night. He’d play old, classical music most nights. What his mother taught him. It’s some of the best to study to. Sometimes on the brink of exam time, his housemates would beg him for something fun, something they could enjoy so that they could forget about school for a little while. That’s when Draco would play his favourite music, what he taught himself. Funnily enough, it was usually older muggle music, from swing to Motown. His housemates would smile and dance, most would sing along or make up words. Those nights were loud and free and fun. Those nights, they didn’t have the weight of the world on their shoulders. Those nights they were just kids.

He hasn’t played the piano since he was fifteen.

Draco sets his mug beside him and plays softly as Harry works. He makes his way through a few songs, slowing down the tempo slightly. He did that sometimes, if he was thinking.

“How do you know all of these muggle songs?” Harry finally asks after a few songs, rubbing at his eyes beneath his glasses.

“Theo used to play muggle music on that ridiculous wireless of his. Believe it or not, I loved it. I taught myself the muggle songs. My mum taught me the classical music, which is all right,” Draco answers, smiling gently at Harry. Harry nods, his eyes flashing some emotion Draco can’t be bothered to work out before he returns to his work.

Thinking of his mum, Draco finds the notes to _Heart and Soul_ and starts playing the light tune. It’s easy to play, easy to listen to, and more memories surface. Draco played this song all the time with his mum at Malfoy Manor. He remembers one afternoon when he scraped his knee after falling off of his toy broomstick. God, he must have been six or seven. He ran inside crying and his mother was there in a heartbeat, working her soothing healing magic quickly. He had still been upset, however, as a little boy would. So, she sat him down next to her on the piano bench and started playing this song, knowing it always cheered Draco up. Before he knew it, he was giggling and playing the second part with her, hurt and sadness forgotten. They played it countless times as he grew up. Whenever he came home from Hogwarts, whenever one or the other was upset, whenever they wanted to have a little fun.

Draco pounds out the joyful tune, not being as gentle with the keys as his childhood resurfaces before him.

Maybe it's time to visit his mother.

 

*******

 

A little while later, Draco convinces Harry to put down the files.

“I can see you stressing, Potter,” Draco states. “Take an hour break, for Merlin’s sake.”

Harry knits his brows together. “It’s not so bad, especially with the music.”

“Stop, it is bad,” Draco rolls his eyes. “Let’s go get some coffee, yeah?” He’s already put on his beanie and is standing in the doorway.

“Fine,” Harry replies. Draco can see the stress leave his shoulders with every step away from the table. “But only an hour!”

Draco smirks. _We’ll see._

“I mean it,” Harry laughs, following Draco to the door, sliding on his bomber jacket before they slip on their shoes. “No offence, but there’s no way I’m walking to Camden Town,” he says, offering his arm.

“I don’t even know which apparition point to take.” Draco takes Harry’s forearm. He can feel the heat coming off of Harry from here. It’s ridiculous, really. Maybe this is why he always orders iced drinks.

Harry smiles at him before turning on the spot. Draco feels the pull in his naval. After an unpleasant second, he’s standing in an alleyway that he knows is magically hidden from muggles. He releases Harry’s arm and follows him onto the main street.

He recognizes the street instantly. They’re about a five minute walk from the shop.

Harry pushes headstrong through the crowd, Draco trailing closely behind, keeping his eye on Harry’s unruly hair so he doesn’t lose him. The sun is still shining bright, but the air is cool and comfortable. Loud families and tourists push past every which way, given the weekend, and Draco finds it hard to keep up with Harry’s quick pace. God, why is he so fast? Must be an Auror thing.

Harry must sense Draco’s struggle, because the next thing Draco knows, Harry’s hand is on his wrist. Draco would gasp at the unexpected touch, but he’s too busy getting dragged through the crowd by Harry to do so. He can’t stop himself from staring, though. Harry’s hand is large and calloused, rough on Draco’s comparably delicate wrist, his skin a dark contrast to Draco’s paleness. He finds it impossible to take his eyes away.

Soon, they’re pushing their way on to the side street that houses the coffee shop. The crowd here is slightly less busy.

“Merlin, why are there so many _people?_ ” Harry complains, stopping in his tracks.

“It’s Saturday,” Draco explains, finally managing to tear his eyes away, up to Harry’s. “And the weather’s nice. The tourists come out to play.” Draco cocks his head, regarding Harry’s behaviour. He seems a little on edge and he rushed through that crowd despite the fact that they’re in no rush. “Don’t like crowds?”

“God, no.” Harry shudders. “I deal with them everytime I take a trip to Diagon Alley. They make me nervous, I don’t know—” Harry drops his gaze, pausing mid sentence. He’s still holding Draco’s wrist. Draco can see the moment Harry realizes that fact, _and_ the fact that it’s his left wrist. “Oh, er, sorry,” he mumbles, letting go.

“You’re fine,” Draco curtly replies, trying to drop that subject. “I understand your resentment of crowds.”

He couldn’t even bear the thought of what would happen if he stepped into Diagon Alley nowadays.

“I didn’t mean to grab your arm,” Harry continues, eyes widening and regretful, trying to backtrack. Okay, so they’re doing this.

“First of all, yes you did, so you wouldn’t lose me in the crowd.” Draco can feel the worry start to build in his chest. Now that they’ve addressed the Mark that separates Draco’s world from Harry’s, maybe Harry won’t want him around anymore? He knows it doesn’t make sense and he shouldn’t even consider such a thing. But, then again, anxiety doesn’t make much sense either.

“Second,” Draco continues, voice losing some confidence, “I . . . do have the Mark.” He swallows, looking down from Harry, crossing his arms over his chest to prevent from repeating any nervous gestures. “I don’t want it to matter here, but . . . but it does matter. And I can’t change the fact. No matter how much I don’t want it, I can’t change it. And,” Draco can feel himself beginning to give in. God, he just wants to draw the curtains shut again. He closes his eyes, fighting back the emotions that threaten to show. “And I’m sorry.”

Harry reaches for Draco’s wrist again. Draco lets him take it. He drops his crossed arms as Harry pulls him aside, out of the crowd. Suddenly, Harry’s other hand is on Draco’s forearm, layng gently right where the Mark is beneath the jumper. Draco jumps at the unexpected touch, eyes flying to Harry’s. Harry’s expression is no longer regretful, and instead he looks certain. Like he’s made up his mind.

“Draco,” Harry begins. The sudden use of his given name startles Draco out of it. “We’re starting over remember?”

Draco only continues to search Harry’s deep green eyes, confused and emotional.

“We all have scars we regret,” Harry continues, slowly and full of purpose. “Some we chose, others we didn’t, but they make us who we are. I know this. You can’t change what you did, but I know this Mark isn’t who you are anymore.” Harry’s eyes search Draco’s and soften. “I don’t think that’s who you ever were.”

Harry looks skyward and sighs. “Besides, I’m the one that brought it up, and I’m sorry.” He smiles slightly, returning his eyes to Draco’s. “But, this”—he tightens his grip around the Mark—”doesn’t matter to me. I just need you to know that, too. Okay?”

“Right,” Draco replies. It’s nearly a whisper as the curtains fall down once more. He could almost cry. “Okay.”

Harry looks just as relieved as Draco feels. “Okay.”

Draco’s stomach flutters. No one’s ever said something so kind about the Mark to him. Harry, so open and accepting beyond anything else, is out of Draco’s mind. No one else could say things like that, things Draco so desperately needed to hear.

Harry’s eyes are sparkling. His gaze drops to Draco’s arm, smile fading as he appears to make another decision. Harry drops the hand on Draco’s wrist, but instead of dropping the other on his forearm, Harry slides it down and into Draco’s hand. Moving to his side, Harry entwines their fingers. Draco’s breath catches before he can react, and he stares, unbelieving.

He’s holding Harry Potter’s hand.

Harry’s eyes find his, searching.

“Is this okay?” He asks, unsure.

Draco can’t speak for all he has to say. Where could he even begin? Instead of telling Harry how perfectly okay and more this is, he nods.

Harry starts forward towards the shop, pulling Draco along with him.

Harry’s hand, which looks strong and rough, holds Draco’s with a surprising tenderness and fragility. His heart is still fluttering, and he doesn’t know if it’s from their conversation or from the fact that Harry Potter’s hand is in his and it doesn’t feel odd at all.

Instead, he feels more at home than he ever has before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Karim Kamar on Youtube has a beautiful piano rendition of Blackbird. That's the version I hear Draco playing. It's amazing, if you want to check it out!  
> 


	6. Chapter 6

“Good Lord, Potter, it isn’t even hard!” Draco laughs as Harry pounds out mostly the wrong notes to the right hand of _Heart and Soul._

“And yet,” Harry replies, shrugging, staring hopelessly at the keys.

Draco sips his mint tea after casting a warming charm on it, for by now it has gone cold. Since returning from the coffee shop, Harry asked about learning a little something on the piano. Draco thought he would teach Harry the first song he was taught. They have been at it for nearly two hours.

“I learned this when I was, like, three,” Draco smirks into his cup.

“Well, we can’t all be as amazing as you, can we?” Harry says smartly, standing up from the bench. “Do you know any more muggle songs I might know? I think I’d better stick to singing.”

Neither has mentioned the hand holding, but Draco still feels like he is walking on air. He is admittedly a little scared to mention it. What they have right now . . . Draco doesn’t exactly know what it is. But he for damn sure doesn’t want to ruin it.

“Um,” Draco ponders this question, staring at Harry. “I used to know--”

But Draco is cut off by a tapping at the window. He looks past Harry, surprised to see his mother’s owl. He had completely forgotten to owl her. That’s one smart owl. Harry gives him an odd look, but stands and walks to the window, opening it.

It’s another dinner invitation from his mother. Instead of immediately refusing, Draco thinks back to that morning, the memories threatening to overwhelm him once more.

“I think I’m going to the Manor tonight,” he says decidedly.

“Yeah?” Harry replies awkwardly. Draco glances at him. He knows Harry doesn’t know what to say. He has no idea what his relationship is like with his family. Draco’s reluctantly amused.

“Yeah,” he states, standing from the piano. “I need to visit my mother.”

“Okay, then. I should probably work on that,” Harry gestures in the vague direction of the coffee table. The files seem to have grown, but Draco knows that’s not possible. “Floo’s open.”

Draco turns and starts up the stairs to change without a second word. He can’t help but think of the last time he saw his mother in person.

It’s a bit of a blur. He remembers a lot of yelling. That had been his father. There was some crying back from his mother. Draco remembers feeling just so overwhelmed and angry and lost. He remembers slamming to front door hard, not even bothering with the floo. He walked off the grounds and apparated away, and that was that.

He was becoming less of a Malfoy everyday. He couldn’t pretend anymore. He had been shaped and molded for so long by his father, that for once, he needed to break free. He needed to tell one truth. It was the day Lucius found out there would never be a Malfoy heir by blood. Draco was the end of the line.

His mother must have minded, but she hid it well. For his sake? For hers? Who knows. Maybe he’d find out tonight.

Draco pulls himself back to the present to be faced with an open closet. He owns a few wizarding robes still. He takes one out at random and stares at it, running a hand over the expensive fabric. He hasn’t worn one for so long. It doesn’t really fit him anymore. Both physically and mentally. He couldn’t wear these robes. He stuffs them back in the closet, running his hands over his face and sighing loudly.

Draco hadn’t wanted to pretend then and he doesn’t want to pretend now. He looks down at his current outfit. Black skinny jeans. Pink jumper. Black, leather boots. He lets his hair down. This will have to do.

Draco makes his way back downstairs, trying to leave his anxieties back in his room. He farewells Harry, already deep into his files.

“Seeya,” he grumbles, flipping a page. Draco smiles at him before disappearing into the green flames.

He shouldn’t be thinking of Harry right now.

Draco steps out of the flames as they die down around him and into the polished drawing room the Manor’s floo lives in. Brushing ash from his jumper, he feels instantly out of place. The walls are ornate, the furniture pristine, the air full of wizarding history, and here he is in a lazy jumper and muggle jeans.

He hears light steps racing towards this room just as he realizes he never replied to his mum’s owl. He has no time to mentally prepare himself before his mother appears around the corner.

She freezes for a moment at the sight of him, and Draco takes her in. She is thinner than she was last Christmas. Grey hairs shine in platinum, and more wrinkles are set in her features. Her robes are elegant, perfectly tailored to her slender frame. She looks like a much older woman than he remembers. Her eyes, however, shine bright in his presence.

Those shining eyes are wide in shock, then joy. 

Draco feels the full force of months of pent up guilt slam into his chest at once.

“Draco, my boy,” she says warmly, closing the distance between them instantly. Before he knows it, he’s wrapped in her arms as she hugs him. He stands shocked for a moment before he hugs her back, feeling like a child again.

He can’t believe this; he expected her to be furious.

“Mum,” he hears himself say into the top of her head. She pulls back, looking up into his face.

“Welcome home, Draco.” She’s beaming.

“I . . .” Draco trails off, overwhelmed at her joy. He doesn’t deserve this. He’s been a terrible son, declining her letters every week for months, barely giving her any information about his life at all.

And yet, she welcomes him home as if he was simply on a short holiday.

“Mum, I’m sorry,” he confesses, looking into her eyes. “I should have come back sooner. You kept writing . . .” He can feel the anxiety rise again in his chest, but his mother cuts it off before it grows too much, just like she always does.

“We all need our time, Draco.” She lifts a hand to his cheek, caressing it softly with her thumb. “I knew you’d come home eventually.”

Draco could almost cry.

“Supper’s nearly ready, dear,” she stands on her toes to kiss him on the cheek before walking out of the room. It’s like she can sense that Draco needs a moment.

He stares at the door for a solid minute before following. He was so wrapped up with his mother, he nearly forgot about his father.

Home, indeed.

Draco starts quietly towards the dining room, dread building with each step. He can hear voices trailing down the hall, unintelligible at this distance. He feels incredibly out of place, like this shouldn’t even be happening. Like he is not real in this moment. But, he’s touching the wall and his feet are on the floor.

“--our son. I will not tolerate any misbehaviour from you.” His mother’s tone is sharp.

It’s real all right.

“He is the misbehaving child, Narcissa. He should not have returned.” Draco’s blood runs cold at his father’s icy tone. He hasn’t heard drawl in so long. His heartbeat becomes more apparent.

“He is not . . .” Narcissa starts. Draco’s breath catches as they go silent. He hears his mum take in a shaky breath. “He is our only child.”

“Which is why--”

“After all this family has been through, does something like this really matter?”

It is almost an outburst, but his mum is obviously trying to keep her voice down. Draco’s hand flies to his mouth to keep from saying something, yelling, crying, he doesn’t know. His other hand is gripping the fabric of his jumper tightly.

After many moments pass, Draco hears the un-Malfoy like scraping of chairs as his parents presumably sit in silence. He takes a very quiet deep breath before turning the corner, trying to pretend as if he hadn’t heard anything.

His mother smiles at him, and it breaks his heart.

“Draco,” his father regards him, sitting at the head of the table. He doesn’t deserve that seat. Draco stares him down. He feels Lucius’s eyes scan him. “My, what are you wearing?” His voice is dripping with disgust.

“Clothes,” he replies as casually as possible, standing as proudly as his retreating confidence will allow. “And hello to you as well, father.”

Draco takes his seat across from his mother. A house elf appears, Fopsy, if he remembers, and serves the first course. She is a smart elf, as she brings three plates. She bows deeply to him before apparating away.

During the painfully long meal, his mother does not once cease looking at him with an overbearing warmth. It balances his father’s cold stare well. She tries to keep conversation flowing, asking Draco innocent, small-talk questions. Draco wishes she wouldn’t. However, he came back for her and her alone. He owes her this much, at the very least.

Everything goes as well as possible. Draco thinks he’ll make it through the whole ordeal unscathed, until they have tea.

“Are you still at that little flat in London, Draco?” His mother questions. “It took Daisy an awfully long time to return from delivering my letter. I feared she was lost.”

“Er, actually I’m not,” he answers, “I just moved out.”

“Not enjoying the muggles anymore?” His father quips. The upteenth vaguely rude comment of the evening. It’s been grinding more and more on Draco’s nerves.

His mother shoots him a glare before continuing.

“Where are you staying now, my dear?”

“Well,” Draco pauses, taking a sip of his tea to procrastinate his answer, looking down at the tea ring left behind on the saucer. It’s all or nothing. “I moved in with someone.”

“Oh!” His mother’s eyes widen a little, obviously not expecting this answer. Draco can’t help but think that if he said this when they still thought he was straight, she’d be jumping with excitement. But now, she looks uncomfortable. Heat prickles in his chest as the silence grows. His eyes dare slide to his father’s. He is staring back with a dangerous intensiveness. Draco sets his teacup down before his hands begin to quiver too noticeably.

“Is this person muggle?” His mother asks, filling the tension.

“No, he’s not,” Draco answers, gaze not leaving his father’s. He sees him react physically to the word ‘he’. “He’s a wizard, not like it really matters.”

“Pity. More disgrace to the name of wizards. Is he a _deviant_ as well?” Lucius hisses, and Draco snaps.

_Disgrace._

“You hypocrite!” Draco yells, startling his mother. “Like you haven’t disgraced us enough yourself!”

“The Malfoy name can be redeemed with an heir. Just give this up Draco and--”

“Give what up, father?” Drao flies to his feet, nearly knocking over his tea. 

_Deviant._

“This nonsensical lifestyle--”

“Lucius!” Narcissa cries.

“Merlin, Father! I _can’t._ I can’t change who I am,” Draco pleads furiously, thumping his hand over his chest, gripping the fabric tightly. “I’m gay. I’m _gay_. I didn’t choose to be--”

“ _Then what did I do wrong?_ ” Lucius yells, anger fleeting away from his eyes for a moment. The sound reverberates around the room, sound hitting the ears twice. The desperate outburst rings in Draco’s ears.

Draco backs up into his chair, the sudden change of tone like a dagger through his heart. He can only stare back at Lucius helplessly, panting heavily and eyes wide.

“I’m not . . .” Draco whispers, realizing what his father is saying. He takes another step back. “I’m not a mistake.”

He turns and hurries out of the room.

Draco doesn’t look back, but he hears his mother’s voice trailing from the room. _His mother._ He really is a terrible son. He can’t leave yet. This cannot end like last time. He needs to see her again. He can’t just walk out again.

Draco needs to go somewhere, though. He can feel the panic rise in his chest. Somewhere safe. He needs to be safe from this feeling. Draco keeps walking.

He finds himself walking through the entrance hall, across to the opposite wing. He strides down the hall a couple of doors before creaking one open.

The room is mostly dark, except for the extremely faint sunlight that streams in through the large, ornate windows. The light shines on the dusty surface of a Bechstein. It’s older than the piano at the Black House. Draco approaches it and trails his fingers through the dust. He pulls his wand out from his boot and clears the layer before he opens the fallboard and sits. Without a moment’s thought, he finds a chord.

Minutes pass and Draco plays. He runs through a few songs from his childhood that he hasn’t thought of in years. His heart calms down as his mind runs clear. The heat in his chest cools.

He does not know how long he has been playing nor how long he had company until his mother places a gentle hand on his shoulder, startling him. He fumbles a key, and looks up at her, breath catching.

Wordlessly, Narcissa sits beside Draco, who moves over to the right. She reaches for his face and wipes away streaming tears that Draco did not realize were there. Draco lets her.

She runs her fingers up through his hair in a comforting manner before retracting her hand. She moves her eyes away from Draco’s and to the piano keys. She begins to play.

It is the first song Draco ever learned, but at a slower, tentative tempo. Draco feels a smile form without his permission as he watches him mum play. Her eyes dart to his to gauge his reaction, then she smiles, too. Draco waits for the opportunity, then joins her with the second part. Together they speed up the tempo until the song is joyous.

Draco could be ten years old again.

“Heart and soul, I fell in love with you,” she sings softly to the rhythm.

“Heart and soul, the way a fool would do,” Draco chimes in at her glance.

“Madly,” they sing together, warmly, “because you held me tight . . .”

“Draco,” Narcissa speaks gently, still playing. “I am so sorry about your father.”

Draco opens his mouth to speak, but she persists.

“We were young. He used to be so beautiful. I loved him madly. Maybe I was a fool for it, but we were idiots together. He led me down that dark path, and I followed. After everything, I was just happy we were still together, a whole family, especially after so many were torn apart,” she pauses to clear her tightening throat. “I don’t understand why he can’t see that. He still thinks the Malfoy name is more important.”

They keep playing. Draco stays silent for a long time. He can’t forgive his father. He simply can’t right now. It still hurts. But, maybe he can help his mother. Even if it is only a little.

“Maybe he needs time like I did,” Draco replies at last. “He needs time to come home.”

He glances at his mother after she abruptly stops playing. She is gawking at him, hand over her heart. Touched.

“Don’t be mistaken, mother. I’m still furious. I can’t forgive him now. But . . . I don’t know, maybe I’m the fool now,” he sighs, running him hand up and down his jeans. His mother’s hand stops him.

“I am so proud of you, Draco,” she says. “My beautiful boy.”

They share a moment before they simultaneously turn back to the piano, where they play unspeaking for what feels like forever to Draco. It's a wonderful forever.

“Can you tell me,” Narcissa says, at last breaking the reverie. Draco glances at her when she doesn’t continue. She looks a little nervous.

“Hm?”

“Can you tell me about this gentleman you’re staying with?” She finishes, not looking back at Draco. Draco smiles warmly. She’s trying, and that is all Draco needs at this moment. The warm feeling stays once he thinks about his gentleman, as his mother put it. If he can really call him that, it’s not like they are really romantic or anything. He only held his hand for a few minutes, after all.

But . . .

“He’s brilliant,” Draco replies quickly, a flush creeping up his cheeks. _Brilliant?_ Where did that one come from? “Well, mostly.”

“Oh?” She says, and that alone opens the gates for Draco.

“I mean he can be so thick, all of the time, but he is also rather intelligent. He doesn’t make sense. And his taste in coffee is abysmal. Not to mention his fashion choices. Merlin, you should see his jacket. And he works himself to death! It’s pitiful, really.”

Narcissa laughs, fully and happily, and stops playing to look at Draco.

“Yes?” Draco prods as she searches him.

“Oh Draco, dear, I can see it in your eyes,” she states, smiling lovingly. “You’re done for. It’s written all over your face.”

Draco clears his throat and faces the piano once more, looking down at the keys.

“And he can’t play the piano to save his life,” Draco grumbles, but his smile gives him away.

“We’ll have to fix that one,” his mother replies, eyes shining as she begins playing a different tune, something beautiful and classical that Draco doesn’t know.

A few minutes ago he felt like he could just disappear for all he was worth to his father. But now, he couldn’t feel happier, more accepted by his mother. And that is all he could ask for at this moment.

After a few more minutes, Draco kisses his mother goodbye, promising her he will see her again very soon.

He floos away before his father can find him, nearly falling out of the unfamiliar fireplace as Harry’s warm living room appears around him.

The coffee table is still splattered with files, but the pile has gone down considerably. Harry isn’t there. Draco moves to see if he is in the kitchen, but a figure at the piano stops him.

Draco smiles, warmth filling his heart as he realizes Harry’s fallen asleep at the piano. His face is buried in his arms, which are pressed over the middle keys. He is snoring slightly.

“Idiot,” Draco whispers, approaching Harry, steps light across the floor. “That’s really not healthy for the piano.”

Draco plays a chord loudly next to his ear, and Harry snorts loudly, flailing a bit at the jarring sound.

“Whuthafuck?” He groans, wiping his eyes under his glasses. He blinks a few times, then looks up at Draco. “Oh, it’s you.”

“What a warm welcome,” Draco replies, all fake attitude. It’s endearing, honestly. “What are you doing?”

“Well, I _was_ sleeping,” Harry leans back on the bench, but realizes a split second too late that no backrest is there to save him. He lets out a choice word and scrambles to stay on the seat.

Draco bursts out laughing, all thoughts about his visit to the Manor melting away. 

Well, all but one. Perhaps his mother is right. Maybe he really is done for.


	7. Chapter 7

Draco is itching for his notebook. It’s buried in his bag. His pace quickens so he can write everything he just saw down. This material is golden. Thank Merlin he couldn’t remember the apparition point and took the tube.

Draco finally turns the corner, coffee shop in sight. 

“Draco, hey!” Lex smirks at him as he opens the door. “Alright?”

“Never better, you?” He digs around for his wallet to pay. Lex raises her eyebrows at the response.

“Marvelous.”

Draco collects his coffee and sits at the nearest open table. He pulls his notebook from his bag and writes down every detail he remembers from his observation. Only then does he finally remove his coat and beany. He didn’t realize it wasn’t cold in here in his rush.

He mulls over his work. Draco boarded a regretfully over packed tube train on his way to the coffee shop. As he counted down the stops, a hurried looking pair boarded last-minute, nearly getting hit by the doors. American accents, gaudy fashion, bleached dry hair, a suspicious suitcase. They only discussed the “item” in the bag and the time of their upcoming flight. It drew Draco’s interest, and his mind rapidly put together an international mother-daughter heist.

Draco drinks his latte as he mulls over the scene. He begins as always, with a name for each character. The younger girl was named, but he shouldn’t be using their real names, so he comes up with lists. Finally he settles on Tina for the younger girl and Rhonda for the woman. Only then does he flesh out each character. Doing so, he discovers their backstories, their motives, their lives.

By the time he is finished with his latte, he’s rewritten the scene he just witnessed, but with more interesting dialogue and added characterizations. As he picks up his tea, smiling at a bewildered Lex, he feels like he could write for days.

It is the first story that he feels like that about.

“I mean, the spy thing I wrote earlier was all right, you know? But this is something here,” Draco explains to Harry that night as he paces around the kitchen. Harry’s cooking dinner, listening to every word Draco says.

“Yeah, whatever happened to your spy thing?” Harry asks, smiling.

“I just kind of lost interest.” Draco stops pacing to hop on the counter next to Harry. Harry gives him a look, but Draco smirks back, leaning against the cupboards. “I’ve written a lot of little things like the spy story, you know. But nothing has come to fruition.”

“That’s a fancy word.”

“It’s common English,” Draco scoffs.

“For you,” Harry rolls his eyes, but then looks back to Draco with . . . affection? Draco looks away.

“This though. I have so many ideas it’s ridiculous. I have so many paths I could take this story. So many motives for the girls, countless backgrounds. I’m having a hard time figuring them out. It’s like,” Draco pauses and runs his fingers through his hair, thinking. “It’s like I’ve never had so many storylines to take anything. I could write a whole book,” he laughs.

Harry stops stirring and looks to Draco. His gaze pulls Draco’s eyes to his. “Then write a book.”

Draco laughs, but Harry doesn’t. His look is encouraging. Draco trails off.

“You’re serious?” Draco draws his brow together,

“Deadly. You could.” Harry breaks the gaze and continues his stirring. Draco looks down at the lap.

“I really couldn’t,” Draco continues. “I mean a book about some girls I saw on the tube? I don’t even know how.”

“You literally just told me you could write a book,” Harry states.

“I didn’t . . . It was a joke, Potter,” Draco rolls his eyes.

“Sure, but it really isn’t such a bad idea,” Harry says. Harry looks at Draco when given no reply, to find Draco looking back, thoughtful. “It really isn’t.”

“You think so?” Draco’s gaze is soft, but his voice is doubtful. This is ridiculous.

“You can at least try. You seem really into this story. Just keep expanding on it, you might find more connections. And Draco,” Harry smiles, sincere as ever. “I really think so. You’re writing isn’t bad.”

“So it’s good?” Draco smirks, hopping off of the counter.

“You really know how to make cliches seem like not-cliches.”

“Oh, shut up,” Draco says. Harry laughs and presses his shoulder against Draco’s, ever so slightly, but ever so noticeable to Draco. His smirk is wiped away by the electricity that shoots through him at Harry’s touch. It couldn’t have been unintentional. His weight is still resting against his shoulder. And now Draco’s heart is beating faster. And his shoulder is still there. And Draco’s mind wavers.

Draco steps around Harry and doesn’t look at him when he speaks next. The hand-holding runs through his mind. Harry’s touch, his laugh, his voice. Draco’s conversation with his mother. It swims through his head and he can’t help but wonder what he is doing. Some foreign anxiety hits Draco. He can’t even figure out why. Or why it’s hitting now.

“Harry . . . is it really all right for me to keep living here?”

Since his visit home it’s been weighing on his mind more and more. He could move to another flat with minimal hassle. He is not quite sure why he didn’t in the first place. But, now, he doesn’t think he really could. He’s grown so used to having company, a person to talk to, someone to be there. He doesn’t want to live alone.

The obvious solution would be to simply find a different flatmate. But, that doesn’t appeal to him at all.

He crosses his arms over his chest as he begins to really wonder what on earth he is doing.

“What?” Harry asks, almost laughing. Draco sighs.

“I mean, I don’t pay to live here and I’m not exactly working. I just don’t want to bother you or anything. I mean, I’m technically a freeloader,” Draco snorts, frowning.

“You’re not bothering me, believe me,” Harry laughs. “You can stay.”

“That’s the thing, though,” Draco says. He pauses, and it clicks in his mind. Why it’s been bothering him so much, staying here. “That’s it. I _can_ stay? Or do you want me to stay? Why are you doing me this favor, Harry?”

“Why are we having this conversation?” Harry stops laughing, smile slowly dropping.

“Because, I can’t--” Draco takes a breath. “I mean, you have a thing for helping people. Am I another one of your causes or something?”

“No, Draco, why would you say that?” Harry frowns, taking a step towards Draco, who takes a step back, feeling the curtains closing in.

“Because I don’t understand why you would want me here. Sure, we’re civil now, friends if you want, but that’s no real reason to want someone living in your house.”

Draco suppresses the emotions that are rising. Desire, want, need for Harry. The only emotion he lets through is fear, and Draco realizes that’s why he brought this up. He’s scared.

He’s scared Harry doesn’t want him as he is starting to want Harry. Desire, want, need. Draco feels those emotions rise up in his throat. If he’s just another charity cause for Harry, then Harry wouldn’t feel those things back. He just needs to know before he digs himself another grave.

“Do you even want me here, Harry?”

“Draco, I can’t . . .” Harry trails off, pausing where he is. He opens his mouth and closes it, struggling to speak.

“Harry,” Draco’s fear grows, “why am I here?”

“Does this really matter Draco?” Harry continues, sounding strained.

“Oh, yes it does,” Draco’s voice rises without his permission.

“Draco,” Harry continues, expression growing angry. Or nervous. Draco can’t tell.

“What?” Draco pleads. No answer. “Harry, what?” He yells, and Harry snaps.

“I can’t live here by myself anymore,” Harry yells back. “I need someone else here. Otherwise it’s just awful. I see Ron and Hermione living together, Nev and Luna, everyone I know. And I’m just alone, and I can’t do it anymore,” Harry finishes, panting heavily.

He obviously has more to say. And he hasn’t said enough.

“Then get a flatmate. Why me, Harry?” Draco retorts forcefully. Is it the same reason he can’t get another flatmate? He can’t imagine spending his time with anyone else?

The thought is paralyzing. And Draco is yelling, and he doesn’t know why he is so worked up.

Then, Draco realizes. Weasley and Granger, Longbottom and Lovegood, they live together because they’re dating.

“Do you really want to know?” Harry continues, angry.

Draco doesn’t speak, but doesn’t look away. 

“I don’t have anyone else. I couldn’t live with anyone else,” Harry screams. Those words take Draco’s breath right out of his lungs, and he must be hallucinating. By now Draco has backed up enough that they’re feet apart. The distance is too much.

“Harry . . .”

“I don’t know what is it about what we have here, but I couldn’t live with anyone else. You just get me, Draco, like nothing else. Merlin,” Harry laughs, but not kindly, “and now you have me saying stupid things. Only you, Draco Malfoy, I honestly can’t stand--”

But Harry can’t finish the sentence because, before Draco realizes what he is doing, he takes two long strides forwards, much more confident than he feels, and grabs Harry by the waist, and pulls him forward.

Then, Draco’s lips press against Harry’s. 

That’s what he wanted to hear.

Harry stands rigid for a moment, and Draco feels a pit in his stomach open. He’s made a terrible mistake. But then the tension melts away. Harry’s lips part, and Draco’s heart leaps at the invitation. All stress, anger, worry, doubt, is vanished like magic. Draco kisses Harry fully, and Harry kisses back as his hand runs up and into Draco’s long hair.

Simultaneously, they pull back, panting. Harry’s cheeks are flaming and Draco can feel the heat in his. Their eyes meet.

“And that’s why I can’t live with anyone else,” Harry mutters between breaths.

“I was so scared, Harry,” Draco’s lips quirk upwards. “I wanted you so bad. I was worried you didn’t want me like that.”

“Are you kidding?” Harry laughs. “I thought you’d run for sure.”

Harry says it with such confidence. Draco pauses, somewhat confused. His mind recalls the past few weeks since they reconnected. Those unreadable looks, Harry’s odd silences, his unsubtle, poorly covered glances, lingering touches. It all makes sense.

Draco feels stupid for not seeing it before. He must have been too preoccupied with his own thoughts for Harry.

As Draco muses this over, Harry busies himself with turning off the stove top. He sits on the counter, and Draco joins him, unbelieving that this is real.

“I didn’t even think you were gay,” Harry confesses. Draco smirks back, a snarky reply ready, but it dies on his lips as he recalls that night at the Manor the other week, hearing his father’s voice echo.

“Hm? What’s wrong?” Harry’s voice interrupts his thoughts. Draco realizes he’s tense. He runs a nervous hand through his hair.

“Before last week, the last time I visited the Manor was Christmas,” Draco explains, looking up towards the ceiling. “That’s when I told my parents I was gay. My father ran me out.”

“Oh,” Harry replies, surprise in his voice. He doesn’t speak and Draco knows he must be uncomfortable, not knowing how to react.

“Last week . . . He didn’t change his mind.” Draco swallows hard, looking from the ceiling down to the floor. “He wants a blood heir so badly. The only thing he cares about is the Malfoy name. In my opinion it should just die out with me.”

The silence stretches, and Draco chances a glance up at Harry, who is looking at him. Just looking. No pity, no worry, nothing. Draco can’t help but feel relieved. The last thing he wants is anything like that from Harry Potter.

“That sucks,” Harry says, with a gentle smile. “I’m so sorry about that.”

“At least my mum doesn’t care about the Malfoy name. I told her all about you.”

“What?” Harry gasps, eyes widening in shock.

“Well, not your name, but she knows how I feel about a certain man,” Draco explains, smiling.

“Oh,” Harry replies, pleased now. But the smugness fades quickly.

“What?” Draco replies.

“Ron and Hermione know I, er, like someone,” Harry explains. “Hermione started hounding me about it. She can read me like a book. It’s honestly terrifying. She caught Ron up.”

“How did everyone see this but us?” Draco asks into the silence. Harry laughs, but it fades off before he takes a heavy sigh.

“We don’t really keep secrets. They know I like someone. I’m gonna have to tell them soon.”

“Well, I do want you to if we . . . if we keep this up,” Draco says. When Harry doesn’t respond, Draco feels a pang of worry. “Harry, I wouldn’t want to keep this a secret. I don’t want to hide anymore.”

“Don’t think like that. It’s just, Merlin they don’t even know I like blokes.”

That one shocks Draco. “What?”

“I’m bi. Honestly, it’s a recent discovery,” Harry explains, looking sidelong at Draco. Draco smirks back.

“Well, I’m flattered I could contribute to your bisexual awakening.”

Harry laughs.

“I’m not stupid, either. I know they won’t like me after all I did,” Draco continues.

“Maybe if you give them a chance, they’ll give you a chance,” Harry says, but it sounds as if he’s reassuring himself more than Draco.

They’ll just have to wait and see.

*******

“You owe me twenty quid,” Lex teases Maggie when Harry joins Draco in the queue with a light peck on the cheek.

“Excuse me, what?” Draco asks, as Maggie opens her mouth to argue with Lex.

“I said you two would be together within the next two weeks. Maggie said it’s take longer. I saw the financial opportunity and took it,” Lex explains, shrugging.

“I’m never coming back here again,” Draco mutters as Lex and Maggie laugh.

Harry chats with the girls and Draco collects their drinks, dragging him away to a secluded table upstairs. Harry starts working on paperwork as Draco, for once, does not make up stories for others. Today, all of his focus goes into his story of the American robbers.

The concept is really coming along. Draco hates to admit it, but he’s actually written quite a lot in the past couple of days. A book? Certainly not yet, but it’s something. Draco doesn’t know quite what, yet.

That night he’s sitting crossed legged on the floor in front of the couch, pouring over his notes. He idly pets a sleeping Fluffy, who is nestled in his lap. Harry is spread out on the couch behind him, musing through files like that. 

Draco takes a deep sip from the mug beside him, full of coffee. Tea wasn’t exactly striking inspiration at this hour. He decided to set the heist in the muggle world. Problem is, his muggle knowledge is still somewhat limited. He picked up a few, recently published novels to study modern muggle life to help his own writing. Harry laughed at him the entire time to show his support.

“Fuck me, muggle travel sounds awful,” he mumbles. Harry laughs again.

“Don’t you ride the tube?”

“I mean, planes. It’s mental! How do they even stay up?” Draco drops his book, exasperated. 

“The greatest mystery of all.”

“No,” Draco says. “I refuse to not know this. There is a plane in my story, you know. I can’t just put a plane in the story without knowing what I’m doing.”

“Er, Draco, I’m sure whoever wrote whatever you’re reading didn’t know how planes stayed up, either.”

“But I’m at a disadvantage here since I wasn’t raised muggle. Whoever wrote this understands how these things truly work in society.”

“Are you talking about planes or knowledge-slash-lack of knowledge about how they work?” Harry humours Draco, who scoffs.

“The second one, obviously.”

“You’re not making any sense, Draco!”

“Well,” Draco leans his head back, against Harry’s arm. “Neither do aeroplanes.”

Draco’s eyes slide to Harry’s, who’s looking at him likes he’s mental. They burst out laughing.

“I’m going to get more coffee,” Harry pushes Draco off his arm ungracefully, and stands, stretches, then disappears into the kitchen.

Draco’s too busy thinking about where he can start looking to learn about planes to notice the floo roar until he hears a voice.

“Harry?” It calls. Draco freezes. That voice certainly belongs to Weasley. Draco’s heartbeat picks up. He realizes that, from his position on the floor, Weasley can’t see him. Draco doesn’t move.

He hears Harry pound over from the kitchen, slightly bewildered. Draco turns his head towards Harry, who gives him a look. Draco is sure his expression is similar.

“Hullo-o!” Weasley sings jokingly into the space. Draco can’t help but crack an amused grin, despite the situation.

“Hey, Ron,” Harry walks over to the floo, rolling his eyes at Draco.

“Hey, what’s going on?”

“I’m drowning in work, like you,” Harry jokes back.

“I know. This case is starting to get out of hand, especially with the grudge work. Which is why I propose going out for drinks. We haven’t gone out in ages!” Weasley continues, excited.

“I don’t know, I still have a lot to get through,” Harry responds, glancing at Draco.

Draco makes a hand gesture to tell Harry to go. He definitely needs a good night off. Mostly Draco is just relieved Ron can’t see him.

Harry looks pointedly at the files on the coffee table. Draco raises one eyebrow with a dangerous look.

“Aw, come on!” Weasley pleads. Draco throws his hands in the air in agreement with the oblivious Weasley. Fluffy whines at the lack of attention. Harry sighs.

“Fine. But don’t expect me to go crazy or anything,” Harry says, looking between Draco and Weasley.

“Yes! I’ll leave the floo open, meet us at the house,” Weasley finishes, disappearing back into the flames.

Draco bursts out laughing after he’s gone. “Merlin, that gave me a heart attack!”

Draco looks to Harry, who looks to find the situation serious rather than hilarious.

“Harry?” Draco stands, abandoning Fluffy with his books, approaching Harry. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I just . . .” he sighs, “I just think I really need to tell them what’s going on. And this is a good time to do that.”

“Oh,” Draco replies. He definitely does not want to keep hiding with Harry, but he can sense the worry pouring off of him. “Well, just remember, I’ll be back here thinking of you. And whatever they say . . .” Draco trails off, motivation speech forgotten. He knows Granger and Weasley won’t have a problem with Harry’s sexuality. They’re definitely not the type to care. But Draco would be shocked if they were also fine with him, and the thought is troublesome.

“It’ll be okay?” Harry chimes in. Draco smiles, and leans in for a light kiss.

“It’ll be okay, Harry.”


	8. Chapter 8

Draco startles awake, the world quickly coming into focus around him. He blinks and rubs his eyes. It’s Harry living room. He’s fallen asleep at the coffee table, books scattered along the surface. But something’s off. Loud voices surround him.

Draco quickly stands, starting to understand what is going on. Weasley is there, just in front of the floo, speaking rapidly and happily to a troubled Harry. Weasley turns his head in Draco's direction, and stops talking. His smile drops as his gaze pierces Draco with disbelief.

“You--you’re not joking, Harry?” He stammers out.

“ _No._ Why would I joke about this?” Harry replies, sounding as strained as he looks.

“This isn’t happening for real,” Weasley states firmly, still looking at Draco, who is starting to feel extremely uncomfortable, hoping he’s still asleep and it’s just a bad dream. No such luck.

“I know what you must be thinking, but please try to understand,” Harry says as the floo roars again. Draco’s stomach drops as Granger emerges. Her mere presence is one of authority and brilliance. She looks worried, but her expression shifts quickly to confused and shocked as she takes in the scene.

“Harry, please tell me you’re not serious,” she says, in an angry sort of disbelief, eyes wide at Draco.

“Guys . . .” Harry pleads quietly. Draco looks at Harry, who is seeing everything begin to shatter around him. Draco just knows. He wants to strut over and hold him tight, but he knows doing so would be inappropriate at this time. 

“All right, I see what’s going on here,” Weasley’s expression turns dark and he stomps towards Draco. Draco stands his ground and crosses his arms, pulling forward his best look of nonchalant disdain. “What did you do to him, Malfoy?”

“Excuse me?”

“Obviously you’ve done _something_ to him. That’s the only explanation. Harry hates you. Don’t make me start an investigation.”

Draco’s heart drops at his words. Harry doesn’t hate him. _He doesn’t._

“Hate to break it to you, but there’s nothing here to investigate, Weasley. I didn’t do anything,” Draco replies, mustering up whatever confidence he can.

“Ron, stop,” Harry demands. “You’re being stupid.”

“Oh, I’m being stupid?” Ron yells back, angrily. Harry doesn’t reply. 

Ron looks back and forth for a moment between Draco and Harry.

“How is this real? You guys should be trying to kill each other right now. There’s no way you could both be in the same room without trying to murder the other.” He says it like a realization of defeat. Draco jumps on it.

“I think I’d much rather be snogging Harry than murdering him, thanks,” he mutters under his breath. Harry’s head turns sharply towards him and they share a look.

“Merlin, save us,” Ron cries, falling into an armchair.

Before anything else escalates, Draco decides to exit the scene for now. They obviously need to talk alone.

“I’m going to make us some tea,” Draco says plainly, leaving without a second glance. He pauses in the hallway to listen. The moment they believe him to be gone, he hears hushed conversation pick up again. The emotion is hard to read.

Draco busies himself with tea, a worried crease in his forehead. He recalls a night a little over a week ago. Harry was making tea and chatting.

“‘Mione thinks putting anything in tea is a scandal. It’s hilarious to watch her watch Ron make his tea. He loads it up with milk and sugar. It makes me a bit sick, to be honest.”

Draco does exactly that. Four cups of English breakfast, made to everyone’s liking. He takes his time measuring sugar and boils water the muggle way, giving the trio as long as possible. He checks his appearance in the metal of the tea kettle, charming his frizzy hair smooth. The dark circles under his eyes will just have to do for now. Falling asleep on the coffee table didn't do his looks any good. Finally, he takes two mugs in each hand, gathers up all of his remaining courage, and walks into the living room.

The trio is gathered around the coffee table. Harry’s sitting on one end of the couch. Weasley is still pouting in his armchair, opposite Granger.

Granger definitely stopped talking mid sentence at Draco’s entrance. Her mouth is still hanging open, and she closes it quickly, looking away from Draco. 

“Granger, Weasley,” he acknowledges them as he places their mugs on the table in front of them. All his wants to do right now is fling himself off a cliff, it’s so awkward. He tries to push the tempting thought away.

“Thank you, Draco,” Granger says as she picks up her tea, her tone light in surprise. Draco almost drops Harry’s mug at the use of his given name. She’s wearing a very shrewd expression.

Draco shakes it off and gives Harry his mug, brushing his hand against Harry’s as he does so. Harry’s face is contorted with worry, and Draco gives him a subtle smile. _It’ll be okay._

Draco takes a chance and glances at Weasley as he sits, a comfortable distance away from Harry, on the couch. He’s staring hard into his tea. Draco bites back a scoff.

“I didn’t poison it,” he remarks, somewhat annoyed but mostly amused. Weasley shoots him a look.

“How’d you know how I take my tea?” He asks. Draco can feel the Auror pouring off of him.

“Harry told me once. But I don’t think you could call _that_ tea,” Draco jokes with a light smirk, attempting to get rid of this foul mood. Weasley bristles at the remark, also mouthing Harry’s name at Draco’s use, but Granger smiles. Nearly smirks, with her knowing looks. It’s a tad forced, but it’s something.

“ _Thank_ you! I’ve been telling him that for years. I simply don’t understand--” She begins.

“It’s more like tea flavored milk than tea with milk. I should’ve just boiled the leaves with the milk--”

“I bet he’d love that, actually,” Granger laughs with a look at Weasley. Draco’s mood lifts. Harry looks utterly lost. Weasley is plainly offended, but Draco can see how hard Weasley is trying. For Harry’s sake. Or maybe he’s still processing everything in his Weasley way.

They really are great friends, Draco thinks.

“You can’t be offended, Weasley. It’s true!” Draco says, fake smile becoming real.

“Well how does the great Draco Malfoy like his tea then?” Weasley replies, face as red as his hair.

“Black. But I mostly drink mint tea or coffee before I drink black tea.”

“What?” Granger snorts, wrinkling her nose.

“See, that’s not real tea,” Weasley is quick to point out.

“What’s wrong with mint tea?” Draco asks, feeling slightly offended. Oh well, if he has to put himself in the mockery spotlight for Harry’s sake, he’ll do it.

“Draco, there is a lot wrong with that,” Harry finally pipes up. Draco should feel happy for his participation, but a realization dawns on him.

“What’re you on about? You drink mint tea, too!” He turns to face Harry head on, now truly offended.

“Well . . .” Harry says, taking a deep sip from his mug and pointedly not looking at Draco.

“What, have you been transfiguring the tea I make you or something?” Draco offers in his silence. Harry doesn’t say anything, but his cheeks go red. “Oh my God, you have!”

The air is still tense, the smiles awkward. Draco can feel the effort Granger and Weasley are putting into this. He wonders what they discussed in his absence. But still. It’s not a yelling match.

“So, Draco,” Granger says, and Draco can feel the conversation tone switch. “When Harry told us he was seeing a man, Ron and I were completely fine with it. No big deal, we’ve been through too much to care about something like that. But then . . .” She glances at Ron, then Harry, “He told us it was you. We couldn’t believe him.”

Draco doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything, ignoring the nervous butterflies in his stomach.

“I am still waiting for this to be some kind of joke,” Weasley says gruffly, raising a hand. “I mean, come on, seriously?”

“Seriously,” Draco says, looking Weasley straight in the eye. “Merlin, stop looking at me like that.”

“I’ll look at you however I want. I just don’t get it. What happened?” Ron’s voice raises in volume, ever so slightly. It’s unnerving.

“We ran into each other a few weeks ago,” Harry starts, trying to diffuse the situation, again, before it starts. “Let’s start there.”

“Well, if we’re going to start there, we might as well start it right,” Draco says. He honestly can’t help himself. “You started stalking me.”

“What?” Harry scoffs. “No!”

“And I think it was more like a month ago, maybe more?” Draco continues, the realization dawning.

“No, I wasn’t stalking you,” Harry presses.

“What else would you call that?” Draco mutters to Harry, then turns toward his friends. “Okay there’s this coffee shop I go to everyday. Harry and I did run into each other there, the first time, but then he started showing up out of the blue, trying to talk to me when I plainly refused, and kept sitting with me without asking. What does that sound like you?”

“Sounds like stalking, Harry,” Granger says, “How am I not surprised.”

“Hey!” Harry warns.

“Thank you!” Draco agrees.

“Anyways,” Harry cuts in loudly, “we fought around a bit, but it wasn’t anything serious.”

“Oh my God, Harry, you were straight up yelling at me that one time, remember? Then I stormed out of the shop and we yelled at each other?”

Harry smiles fondly. “Yeah, that was a good day.”

“Yeah, sure,” Draco snorts. “But after that we started talking a bit. Really talking.” Draco smiles softly, looking at Harry. “And we got to know each other more. And that’s really it.”

“Well there’s more, but I’ll spare you the details, Ron,” Harry smirks at his best friend, whose face is a mix of many emotions, not all negative.

“Thanks mate,” he says under a cough, with a sidelong glare at Draco. “So Harry’s bi. Sure okay, but Draco. I didn’t know you were gay or bi or whatever you are.”

“Oh, here we go again,” Draco mutters. “I’m gay, Weasley.”

“I plainly remember you falling all over Parkinson, or whatever her name was, at Hogwarts. How do I know you’re not pretending so you can get to Harry? One of your tricks?” Ron leans forward on his elbows. Draco thinks he’s trying to be threatening.

“Are you serious, Ron?” Harry scoffs. Draco can hear the subtle hurt in his voice. Now, Draco won’t have it.

“Great memory, Weasley. That was mainly for our parents. So they’d stop bothering us so much or try to set us up with anyone. Back in the dorms, though, that’s what you didn’t see. Pansy and Millie were dating right under everyone’s noses. Oh, and Blaise Zabini! Remember him? He and I used to--”

“No, stop!” Ron yells. “Nevermind. I believe you. I don’t want to know.”

“Oh God, neither do I,” Harry says.

“I just had no idea,” Hermione says, looking through Draco.

“Well,” Draco stands. “Now you do. I’m going to get coffee. This tea is not doing me any good.” Definitely not for this conversation.

Draco retreats to the kitchen to dump the contents of his mug. As he’s rinsing it out, he hears light footsteps behind him.

“You’d better not hurt him, Draco Malfoy,” Granger says. Draco turns to face her, uneasy at her sudden tone. “Because if you hurt him you’re going to have to deal with me.”

Draco takes her in. She’s standing tall, hands on her hips. She looks and sounds deadly. And Draco totally believes her. 

“Hermione,” Draco sets his empty mug down on the counter with a soft clatter. “I . . .”

Where should he begin? Draco needs her to know that he would never, could never, hurt Harry. To do that, he knows what he has to do. And it’s hard, but also not. Because he means every word he’s about to say. He takes a deep breath, and faces her fully.

“I am so sorry about every horrible, disgusting thing I ever said to you. All the pain I put you through. I know ‘sorry’ isn’t enough. I am unexcusable. And I’m _not_ that person now,” Draco pauses to take a steadying breath. “Words cannot possibly mean anything to you. I just hope I can show you. I won’t hurt Harry.”

As Draco speaks, Hermione’s piercing stare softens, ever so slightly. “Draco, this is your only chance. I can’t possibly forgive you, yet. I can tell you right now that Ron’s having a hard time with this, but I know he’ll eventually come around. I only can if you really show me. Harry’s a nervous wreck right now, which can only mean that he really cares about this, Merlin knows why. You’d better care, too.”

With that, she turns on her heel and walks out of the kitchen. Draco sighs, looking up to the ceiling. He can’t fuck this one up.

He pours himself another mug of coffee, paying particular attention to his surroundings. The noises of the coffeemaker, the hum of the refrigerator, his own breath. Draco briefly recalls the silence of his old flat, the dark hallway. If he closes his eyes for a moment, he could almost be back there again. It’s so quiet. He opens his eyes to be met with a view of Harry’s back garden through the window, relieved. He collects his coffee, thinking maybe tomorrow he’ll finally tell the landlord he’s moving out, and reenters the living room.

The trio has shifted in his absence. Weasley is standing beside the coffee table, going through Draco’s books with a curious air. Draco feels the annoyance hit, but he can’t do anything about it. He catches Harry’s eye. He smiles and waves Draco notebook in his hand, making sure his writing is safe. Draco smiles in return, grateful. That’s the last thing he wants Weasley to find.

Hermione is sitting next to Harry on the couch, somewhat protectively. Fluffy’s wrapped up between them. She’s talking to Harry, but Draco can’t hear whatever she’s saying.

Draco doesn’t want to ruin whatever they have going on. Harry needs this, and Draco would only get in his way. Draco, instead, sits on the piano bench, away from the group, turning on the lamp with a lumos. The warm light pools over him. He sets his mug on the piano’s body, something Aunt Walburga would scream at him for, and watches the trio from his distance.

“Is this muggle? The pictures aren’t moving,” Weasley asks, squinting at a page in Draco’s book. It’s the one with the aeroplanes.

“Yes, I’m doing a bit of research,” Draco replies. Weasley gives him a look.

“On muggle novels?”

Draco shrugs. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

“I’m writing, or well, trying to write, a novel set in the muggle world. I need to know more about their daily life. I thought that’d be a good place to start.”

Hermione’s head peak over the couch at Draco. “ _You’re_ writing a _muggle novel?_ ”

“Trying to,” Draco replies with a sip from his mug.

Hermione just stares at him hard for another second before her bushy hair disappears again behind the couch.

Weasley picks up another book, one Draco hasn’t touched yet, and leafs through it. Hermione starts talking to Harry again. Draco lifts the fallboard.

He doesn’t want to distract the trio from their little bonding moment, or whatever, that’s going on, but he wants to help Harry in whatever way he can, so he plays softly, just for him.

Draco slowly feels himself fall into the music, but he’s careful to keep his hands light. The effect is mesmerizing, beautiful. Draco can tell. And suddenly, everything around him is calm.

Draco is halfway through the song, when suddenly something is off. He can’t tell what until he glances over to Harry. He stops playing. The three are watching him.

“What?” Draco asks softly. He wasn’t trying to play loud, surely a little background music wasn’t distracting them. Hermione is studying him. Weasley’s mouth is hanging open slightly. Draco’s gaze shifts to Harry, and their eyes meet. Harry is smiling softly, serenely. The smile grows when Draco smiles back.

“That’s . . . really nice.” Hermione observes stiffly. Draco lets out a soft breath of laughter. She’s a charmer.

“Thank you,” Draco replies, looking back at the keys.

“I’ve heard that song before, but I can’t place it,” Hermione continues.

“It’s a Beatles song, ‘Mione,” Harry says happily. Draco can hear it in his voice, and his heart swells. “You know, _Let It Be._ ”

“Oh, that’s right!”

“Beetles? What are you guys on about?” Ron snorts.

“It’s a muggle band,” Draco laughs. “And it’s Beat-les. Like beat music.”

“Unbelievable,” Ron mutters. “I suppose he knows how aeroplances stay up, too.”

“Oh God, no, don’t start,” Harry hastens to adds. Draco laughs.

His laughter trails off. He takes another breath. Maybe it will be okay.

He continues playing the song, Harry humming along in the background the whole time.

*******

“Tell me something about yourself that you’ve never told anyone before,” Draco says one afternoon, a few days later.

The coffee shop is slow. Maggie is the only one working behind bar because of it. Even she ran out of things to clean. Draco has been watching her tap away on her phone for the past hour between sentences in his book. Harry has been staring at the same file page for the last thirty minutes, making unimpressed, bored noises every so often. The weather outside is cold. Draco wouldn’t be surprised if the rain, now pounding against the glass, turned to snow soon.

Harry glances at Draco over his glasses, but otherwise makes no indication that he heard Draco’s question. Draco doesn’t know why he asked. The question simply occurred to him. Besides, Draco yearns to know more about Harry. He barely knows more about the man than the general wizarding population does, if he’s being frank. Draco supposes he wants something real, something from Harry that’s his and his only.

The silence stretches, but Draco would never pressure Harry into divulging information that he doesn’t need to know. Besides, they don’t need to talk. Harry’s presence is enough for Draco.

“I was abused by my aunt and uncle as a kid,” Harry answers medically after many minutes pass. Draco nearly forgot he even asked the question, so the sudden confession is alarming. Draco holds back, and looks up from his pen at Harry. Even when he asked the question, he still didn’t expect something so personal, and frankly, so shocking coming from Harry, who continues.

“They’d lock me in my cupboard under the stairs, where I slept until I was eleven, and starved me for days if I did something out of line. It didn’t take a lot to set them off. Aunt Petunia sometimes hit me if I messed up their meals. It wasn’t great,” Harry says, gaze looking past Draco, fixed on some spot over his shoulder. His eyes shift back into focus, into Draco’s. “I never told anyone that. Not even Ron and Hermione.”

Draco doesn’t know what to say. What to feel. He’s so sad, so quickly, for Harry. His pure and happy and bright, loving, brilliant Harry. How could anyone ever dare hurt him? But mostly, Draco just wants to find these arsehole muggles and pummel them. He doesn’t know what to do.

“Fuck, Harry,” is what he settles on. “I’m so sorry.”

Harry looks at him for another minute, holding his breath. Then he releases it in a clumsy exhale and smiles softly at Draco.

“You’re pissed, aren’t you?”

“If I ever see these goddamn muggles I promise you, Harry, I am going to beat them to a bloody pulp and make them apologize relentlessly to you for hurting you for all those years. That shit doesn’t go away,” Draco snaps through clenched teeth, barely holding back from yelling. Then suddenly, everything clicks.

Why Harry cooks every meal methodically, why he has an entirely muggle kitchen, why he cleans so ridiculously thoroughly, scrubbing the counter tops and floors long after even a house elf would stop. Why Harry eats like someone might take his food away at any moment. Why he gets nervous when people yell, especially in crowds. And Draco’s heart breaks because Harry is still suffering, still hurting, from what these arseholes did to him.

“What about you?” Harry asks.

“What?” Draco replies, breaking away from his thoughts. Harry now looks completely fine from a minute ago, and Draco hates himself for making Harry have to think of that pain for another moment.

“Tell me something about you that you’ve never told anyone else.”

Now, it’s Draco’s turn to be silent. Something about him that he’s never told anyone else. The silence stretches.

“On that day, back in the manor, when they asked me to identify you. I knew it was you.”

Draco watches Harry’s response carefully. It takes a moment, but Harry’s face breaks out into a huge smile.

“I knew you did. I knew it, Draco.”

“Oh, did you really?”

“No. Never for sure. But I just knew,” Harry says happily. “But why didn’t you give me away? You could’ve died. Or worse,” Harry asks as his expression turns serious again.

“Because I believed you could win. And I wanted you to win, Harry,” Draco replies softly. 

Harry’s smile returns, softer this time. “Is that so?”

Draco smirks in return, rolling his eyes as his brings his mug to his lips, drinking deeply instead of answering. There are no words to describe what Draco wants to say. Not enough in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!! All of your lovely comments and kudos are appreciated <3 Next chapter soon!


End file.
